THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

FOR  THE 
ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


THORNFIELD     EDITION 
ILLUSTRATED 


LIFE   AND  WORKS   OF 

THE    SISTERS     BRONTE 

WITH   PREFACES   BY 

MRS.    HUMPHRY    WARD 

AND  AN   INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 

TO  THE  LIFE  BY 
CLEMENT   K.  SHORTER 


IN   SEVEN    VOLUMES 
VOLUME   IV 

THE      PROFESSOR 


CKIMSWOHTTf    TTATJ- 


THORNF1ELD     EDITION 


THE    PROFESSOR 


BY 

CHARLOTTE    BRONTE 

(CURRER  BELL) 

AND  POEMS  BY  CHARLOTTE,  EMILY 

AND  ANNE  BRONTE,  AND  THE 

REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE,  ETC. 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION   BY 

MRS.   HUMPHRY  WARD 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH 
PORTRAITS  AND  VIEWS 


HARPER  6-  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


Copyright,  1900,  by  MART  A.  WARD. 


Ai!  ritf/Ui  r,trr,ed. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xiii 

THE  PROFESSOR 1 

EMMA.      A    FRAGMENT  OF  A    STORY   BY    CHARLOTTE 

BRONTE.  WITH  INTRODUCTION  BY  W.  M.  THACKERAY  275 

POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL  :— 

PILATE'S  WIFE'S  DREAM 805 

MEMENTOS 310 

THE  WIFE'S  WILL 317 

THE  WOOD 819 

FRANCES 324 

GILBERT       . 332 

LIFE 845 

THE  LETTER 345 

REGRET    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .848 

PRESENTIMENT 849 

THE  TEACHER'S  MONOLOGUE 851 

PASSION 854 

PREFERENCE 856 

EVENING  SOLACE         ...;....  358 

STANZAS 859 

WATCHING  AND  WISHING 361 

WHEN  THOU  SLEEPEST 362 

PARTING 364 

APOSTASY 365 

WINTER  STORES  .  368 


viii  THE   PEOFESSOR 

POEMS  BY  CURREB  BELL:-con*. 

PAOK 

THE  MISSIONARY 369 

MEMORY .    .  374 

THE  ORPHANS 375 

POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL:— 

FAITH  AND  DESPONDENCY 878 

STARS 380 

THE  PHILOSOPHER 382 

REMEMBRANCE 383 

THE  OUTCAST  MOTHER 885 

A  DEATH-SCENE 886 

SONQ 388 

ANTICIPATION 389 

THE  PRISONER.    A  FRAGMENT 390 

HOPE 393 

A  DAY  DREAM 394 

To  IMAGINATION 396 

HOW  CLEAR  SHE  SHINES 897 

SYMPATHY 399 

PLEAD  FOR  ME 899 

SELF-INTERROGATION 401 

DEATH 402 

STANZAS  TO  . 404 

HONOUR'S  MARTYR 404 

STANZAS 407 

MY  COMFORTER 407 

THE  OLD  STOIC 409 

POEMS  BY  ACTON  BELL :— 

A  REMINISCENCE 410 

THE  ARBOUR 411 

HOME 412 

VANITAS  VANITATUM,  OMNIA  VANITAS      ....  413 

THE  PENITENT 414 


CONTENTS  ix 
POEMS  BY  ACTON  BELL :— cant. 

PAOK 

Music  ON  CHRISTMAS  MORNING 415 

STANZAS 416 

IF  THIS  BE  ALL 417 

MEMORY       .                418 

To  COWPBR 420 

THE  DOUBTER'S  PRAYER 421 

A  WORD  TO  THE  'ELECT' 423 

PAST  DAYS 425 

THE  CONSOLATION 426 

LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  WOOD  ON  A  WINDY  DAY        .     .  427 

VIEWS  OF  LIFE 428 

APPEAL 433 

THE  STUDENT'S  SERENADE 434 

THE  CAPTIVE  DOVE 435 

SELF-CONGRATULATION 436 

FLUCTUATIONS 488 

SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL  \— 

INTRODUCTION 443 

STANZAS       . 446 

THE  BLUEBELL 447 

STANZAS 448 

GENIUS  OF  SOLITUDE       .......  451 

THE  NIGHT-WIND 452 

THE  STORM 453 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 454 

THE  ELDER'S  EEBUKE 454 

THE  WANDERER  FROM  THE  FOLD 456 

WARNING  AND  KEPLY 457 

LAST  WORDS 458 

THE  LADY  TO  HER  GUITAR 459 

THE  Two  CHILDREN 459 

THE  VISIONARY 462 

ENCOURAGEMENT  .        , 462. 


x  THE  PROFESSOR 

SELECTIONS  FROM   POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL :— cant. 

PAOB 

STANZAS 463 

LAST  LINES 464 

SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS  BY  ACTON  BELL  :— 

INTRODUCTION 466 

DESPONDENCY 467 

A  PRAYER 468 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A  HAPPY  DAY  IN  FEBRUARY  .        .        .  468 

CONFIDENCE 470 

THE  NARROW  WAY 471 

DOMESTIC  PEACE 472 

THE  THREE  GUIDES 473 

LAST  MEMENTO 480 

COTTAGE  POEMS.    BY  THE  REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE,  B.A.  :— 

EPISTLE  TO  THE  REV.  J B —  ....  487 

THE  HAPPY  COTTAGERS 493 

THE  RAINBOW 601 

WlNTER-NlGHT    MEDITATIONS 506 

VERSES  SENT  TO  A  LADY  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY  .        .        ,  514 

THE  IRISH  CABIN 516 

To  THE  REV.  J.  GILPIN 522 

THE  COTTAGE  MAID 525 

THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY 529 

EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERGYMAN      .....  581 

EPISTLE  TO  THE  LABOURING  POOR 534 

THE  COTTAGER'S  HYMN 538 

INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS  .        .        .        ,  543 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACSIMILE  OF  THE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST 

EDITION  OF  "THE  PROFESSOR"  .  .  .  p.  xix 

BRUSSELS  FROM  THE  RUE  ROYALE     .     .     .     .   TO  face  p.  60 

FACSIMILE  OF  THE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST 
EDITION  OF  "  POEMS,"  by  CURRER,  ELLIS, 
and  ACTON  BELL P.  303 

FACSIMILE  OF  THE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST 
EDITION  OF  "COTTAGE  POEMS,"  by  the  REV. 
PATRICK  BRONTE,  B.A P.  485 

The  following  illustrations  are  reproduced  from  photographs 

taken  by  Mr.  W.  R.  Bland,  of  DuffielJ,  Derby  : 
CRIMSWORTH  HALL  (Photogravure)     ....       Frontispiece 

VIEW  FROM  CRIMSWORTH  HALL TO  face  p.    16 

DAISY  LANE "      262 

"IN  THAT  GLADE,  WHERE  FOLIAGE  BLENDING 

FORMS  A  GREEN  ARCH  OVERHEAD"       .     .  358 

"STRUCK  DEEP  ITS  ROOT,  AND  LIFTED  HIGH  ITS 

GREEN  BOUQHS" 380 

"BUT  I  MAY  PASS  THE  OLD  CHURCH  DOOR*'  .  4IO 

VIEW  OF  THE  MOORS  .........      "      444 


INTRODUCTION 


IT  is  in  April  1846  that  we  discover  a  first  mention  of 
'The  Professor'  in  a  letter  from  Charlotte  Bronte  to 
Messrs.  Aylott  &  Jones,  the  publishers  of  the  little  volume 
of 'Poems  by  Currer,  Ellis,  and  Acton  Bell'  which  made 
its  modest  appearance  in  that  year.  Miss  Bronte  consults 
Messrs.  Aylott  &  Co. '  on  behalf  of  C.,  E .  and  A.  Bell '  as 
to  how  they  can  best  publish  three  tales  already  written 
by  them — whether  in  three  connected  volumes  or  sepa- 
rately. The  advice  given  was  no  doubt  prudent  and 
friendly, — but  it  did  not  help '  The  Professor.'  The  story 
went  fruitlessly  to  many  publishers.  It  returned  to 
Charlotte,  from  one  of  its  later  quests,  on  the  very 
morning  of  the  day  on  which  Mr.  Bronte  underwent  an 
operation  for  cataract  at  Manchester — August  25,  1846. 
That  evening,  as  we  have  seen,  she  began  '  Jane  Eyre.' 

After  the  great  success  of  the  first  two  books,  she 
would  have  liked  to  publish  'The  Professor.'  But 
Mr.  Smith  and  Mr.  Williams  dissuaded  her ;  and  to 
their  dissuasion  we  owe  '  Villette' ;  for  if  '  The  Professor ' 
had  appeared  in  1851,  Miss  Bronte  could  have  made  no 
such  further  use  of  her  Brussels  materials  as  she  did 
actually  put  them  to  in  '  Villette.'  The  story  was  finally 
published  after  the  writer's  death,  and  when  the  strong 


xiv  THE  PROFESSOR 

interest  excited  by  Mrs.  Gaskell's  Memoir  led  naturally 
to  a  demand  for  all  that  could  yet  be  given  to  the  public 
from  the  hand  of  Currer  Bell. 

There  is  little  to  add  to  the  writer's  own  animated 
preface.  As  she  herself  points  out,  the  book  is  by 
no  means  the  book  of  a  novice.  It  was  written  in 
the  author's  thirtieth  year,  after  a  long  apprentice- 
ship to  the  art  of  writing.  Those  innumerable  tales, 
poems,  and  essays,  composed  in  childhood  and  youth,  of 
which  Mrs.  Gaskell  and  Mr.  Shorter  between  them 
give  accounts  so  suggestive  and  remarkable,  were  the 
natural  and  right  foundation  for  all  that  followed. 
'  The  Professor '  shows  already  a  method  of  composition 
almost  mature,  a  pronounced  manner,  and  the  same 
power  of  analysis,  within  narrower  limits,  as  the  other 
books.  What  it  lacks  is  colour  and  movement.  Crims- 
worth  as  the  lonely  and  struggling  teacher,  is  inevitably 
less  interesting — described,  at  any  rate,  by  a  woman— 
than  Lucy  Snowe  under  the  same  conditions,  and  in  the 
same  surroundings.  His  role  is  not  particularly  manly; 
and  he  does  not  appeal  to  our  pit}7.  The  intimate  au- 
tobiographical note,  which  makes  the  spell  of  '  Villette,' 
is  absent ;  we  miss  the  passionate  moods  and  caprices, 
all  the  perennial  charm  of  variable  woman,  which 
belongs  to  the  later  story.  There  are  besides  no 
vicissitudes  in  the  plot.  C  rims  worth  suffers  nothing 
to  speak  of ;  he  wins  his  Frances  too  easily ;  and  the 
reader's  emotions  are  left  unstirred. 

Mademoiselle  Eeuter  is  Madame  Beck  over  again, 
but  at  once  less  credible  and  less  complex.  Pelet  is  an 
extremely  clever  sketch.  And  Hunsworth? 

Hunsworth  is  really  the  critical  element  in  the  story. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

If  he  were  other  than  he  is, '  The  Professor'  would  have 
stood  higher  in  the  scale.  For  the  conception  of  him  is 
both  ambitious  and  original.  But  it  breaks  down.  He 
puzzles  us ;  and  yet  he  is  not  mysterious.  For  that  he 
is  not  human  enough.  In  the  end  we  find  him  merely 
brutal  and  repellent,  and  the  letter  to  Crimsworth, 
which  accompanies  the  gift  of  the  picture,  is  one  of  those 
extravagances  which  destroy  a  reader's  sense  of  illusion. 
Great  pains  have  been  taken  with  him ;  and  when  he 
enters  he  promises  much ;  but  he  is  never  truly  living 
for  a  single  page,  and  half  way  through  the  book  he  has 
already  become  a  mere  bundle  of  incredibilities.  Let 
the  reader  put  him  beside  Mr.  Helstone  of  'Shirley,' 
beside  even  Rochester,  not  to  speak  of  Dr.  John  or 
Monsieur  Paul,  and  so  realise  the  difference  between 
imagination  working  at  ease,  in  happy  and  vitalising 
strength,  and  the  same  faculty  toiling  unprofitably  and 
half-heartedly  with  material  which  it  can  neither  fuse 
nor  master.  There  is  pungency  and  power  in  much  of 
Hunsworth's  talk;  but  it  is  not  a  pungency  or  power 
that  can  save  him  as  a  creation. 

On  the  other  hand  Frances  Henri,  the  little  lace- 
mender,  is  a  figure  touched  at  every  point  with  grace, 
feeling  and  truth.  She  is  an  exquisite  sketch  —  a 
drawing  in  pale,  pure  colour,  all  delicate  animation  and 
soft  life.  She  is  only  inferior  to  Caroline  Helstone 
because  the  range  of  emotion  and  incident  that  her 
story  requires  is  so  much  narrower  than  that  which 
Caroline  passes  through.  One  feels  her  thrown  away  on 
'  The  Professor.'  An  ampler  stage  and  a  warmer  air 
should  have  been  reserved  for  her;  adventures  more 
subtly  invented ;  and  a  lover  less  easily  victorious. 


xvi  THE   PROFESSOR 

But  the  scene  in  which  she  makes  tea  for  Crirasworth — 
so  at  least  one  thinks  as  one  reads  it — could  hardly  be 
surpassed  for  fresh  and  tender  charm ;  although  when 
the  same  material  is  used  again  for  the  last  scenes  of 
'Villette,'  it  is  not  hard  to  see  how  the  flame  and 
impetus  of  a  great  book  may  still  heighten  and  deepen 
what  was  already  excellent  before. 

'The  Professor'  indeed  is  grey  and  featureless  com- 
pared with  any  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  other  work.  The 
final  impression  is  that  she  was  working  under  restraint 
when  writing  it,  and  that  her  proper  gifts  were  con- 
sciously denied  full  play  in  it.  In  the  preface  of  1851, 
she  says,  as  an  explanation  of  the  sobriety  of  the  story 
— '  In  many  a  crude  effort  destroyed  almost  as  soon  as 
composed,  I  had  got  over  any  such  taste  as  I  might 
once  have  had  for  ornamented  and  redundant  composi- 
tion, and  come  to  prefer  what  was  plain  and  homely.' 
In  other  words,  she  was  putting  herself  under  discipline 
in  '  The  Professor ' ;  trying  to  subdue  the  poetical  im- 
pulse ;  to  work  as  a  realist  and  an  observer  only. 

According  to  her  own  account  of  it,  the  publishers 
interfered  with  this  process.  They  would  not  have 
'The  Professor';  and  they  welcomed  'Jane  Eyre'  with 
alacrity.  She  was  therefore  thrown  back,  so  to  speak, 
upon  her  faults;  obliged  to  work  in  ways  more  'orna- 
mented' and  'redundant';  and  thus  the  promise  of 
realism  in  her  was  destroyed.  The  explanation  is  one 
of  those  which  the  artist  will  always  supply  himself  with 
on  occasion.  In  truth,  the  method  of  'The  Professor' 
represents  a  mere  temporary  reaction, — an  experiment 
—in  Charlotte  Bronte's  literary  development.  When  she 
returned  to  that  exuberance  of  imagination  and  expres- 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

sion  which  was  her  natural  utterance,  she  was  not  merely 
writing  to  please  her  publishers  and  the  public.  Rather 
it  was  like  Emily's  passionate  return  to  the  moorland — 

I'll  walk  where  my  own  nature  would  be  leading, 
It  vexes  me  to  choose  another  guide : 

The  strong  native  bent  reasserted  itself,  and  with  the 
happiest  effects. 

But  because  of  what  came  after,  and  because  the 
mental  history  of  a  great  and  delightful  artist  will 
always  appeal  to  the  affectionate  curiosity  of  later 
generations,  '  The  Professor '  will  continue  to  be  read 
both  by  those  who  love  Charlotte  Bronte,  and  by  those 
who  find  pleasure  in  tracking  the  processes  of  literature. 
It  needs  no  apology  as  a  separate  entity ;  but  from  its 
relation  to'Villette'  it  gains  an  interest  and  importance 
the  world  would  not  otherwise  have  granted  it.  It  is 
the  first  revelation  of  a  genius  which  from  each  added 
throb  of  happiness  or  sorrow,  from  each  short  after-year 
of  strenuous  living, — per  damna,  per  ccedes  —  was  to 
gain  fresh  wealth  and  steadily  advancing  power. 

MAKY  A.  WARD. 


Facsimile  of  the  Title-page  of  the  First  Edition. 


THE    PEOFESSOE, 


&  Hale. 


AUTHOR     or    "J4NE     ETSB,"    "  illULEY."    "  VILLKTTE,"    *C. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 

VOL.  I. 


LONDON: 
SMITH,    ELDER    &    CO.,    65,    COHNHILL. 

1857. 

f  The  right  of  Translation  is  reserved.] 


PREFACE  TO  'THE   PROFESSOR' 


THIS  little  book  was  written  before  either  *  Jane  Eyre ' 
or  '  Shirley/  and  yet  no  indulgence  can  be  solicited  for  it 
on  the  plea  of  a  first  attempt.  A  first  attempt  it  certainly 
was  not,  as  the  pen  which  wrote  it  had  been  previously 
worn  a  good  deal  in  a  practice  of  some  years.  I  had  'not 
indeed  published  anything  before  I  commenced  '  The  Pro- 
fessor/ but  in  many  a  crude  effort,  destroyed  almost  as 
soon  as  composed,  I  had  got  over  any  such  taste  as  I  might 
once  have  had  for  ornamented  and  redundant  composition, 
and  come  to  prefer  what  was  plain  and  homely.  At  the 
same  time  I  had  adopted  a  set  of  principles  on  the  subject 
of  incident,  &c.,  such  as  would  be  generally  approved 
in  theory,  but  the  result  of  which,  when  carried  out  into 
practice,  often  procures  for  an  author  more  surprise  than 
pleasure. 

I  said  to  myself  that  my  hero  should  work  his  way 
through  life  as  I  had  seen  real  living  men  work  theirs — 
that  he  should  never  get  a  shilling  he  had  not  earned— 
that  no  sudden  turns  should  lift  him  in  a  moment  to  wealth 
and  high  station;  that  whatever  small  competency  he 
might  gain,  should  be  won  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow ; 
that,  before  he  could  find  so  much  as  an  arbour  to  sit 
down  in,  he  should  master  at  least  half  the  ascent  of  'the 
Hill  of  Difficulty' ;  that  he  should  not  even  marry  a  beau- 
tiful girl  or  a  lady  of  rank.  As  Adam's  son  he  should  share 
Adam's  doom,  and  drain  throughout  life  a  mixed  and  mod- 
erate cup  of  enjoyment. 

In  the  sequel,  however,  I  find  that  publishers  in  general 


4  THE   PROFESSOR 

scarcely  approved  of  this  system,  bat  would  have  liked 
something  more  imaginative  and  poetical — something  more 
consonant  with  a  highly-wrought  fancy,  with  a  taste  for 
pathos,  with  sentiments  more  tender,  elevated,  unworldly. 
Indeed,  until  an  author  has  tried  to  dispose  of  a  manuscript 
of  this  kind,  he  can  never  know  what  stores  of  romance 
and  sensibility  lie  hidden  in  breasts  he  would  not  have  sus- 
pected of  casketing  such  treasures.  Men  in  business  are 
usually  thought  to  prefer  the  real ;  on  trial  the  idea  will  be 
often  found  fallacious  :  a  passionate  preference  for  the  wild, 
wonderful,  and  thrilling — the  strange,  startling,  and  har- 
rowing— agitates  divers  souls  that  show  a  calm  and  sober 
surface. 

Such  being  the  case,  the  reader  will  comprehend  that  to 
have  reached  him  in  the  form  of  a  printed  book,  this  brief 
narrative  must  have  gone  through  some  struggles — which 
indeed  it  has.  And  after  all,  its  worst  struggle  and  strong- 
est ordeal  is  yet  to  come ;  but  it  takes  comfort — subdues 
fear — leans  on  the  staff  of  a  moderate  expectation — and 
mutters  under  its  breath,  while  lifting  its  eye  to  that  of 
the  public, 

He  that  is  low  need  fear  no  fall. 

CURBEE  BELL. 

The  foregoing  preface  was  written  by  my  wife  with  a 
view  to  the  publication  of  '  The  Professor,'  shortly  after  the 
appearance  of  'Shirley/  Being  dissuaded  from  her  in- 
tention, the  authoress  made  some  use  of  the  materials  in 
a  subsequent  work — 'Villette/  As,  however,  these  two 
stories  are  in  most  respects  alike,  it  has  been  represented 
to  me  that  I  ought  not  to  withhold  '  The  Professor '  from 
the  public.  I  have  therefore  consented  to  its  publication. 

A.  B.  NICHOLLS. 
HAWOHTH  PARSONAGE, 

September  22nd,  1856. 


THE   PROFESSOR 

CHAPTEE  I 

INTRODUCTORY 

THE  other  day,  in  looking  over  my  papers,  I  found  in  my 
desk  the  following  copy  of  a  letter,  sent  by  me  a  year  since 
to  an  old  school  acquaintance  : — 

«  DEAR  CHARLES, — 

'  I  THINK,  when  you  and  I  were  at  Eton  together,  we 
were  neither  of  us  what  could  be  called  popular  characters : 
you  were  a  sarcastic,  observant,  shrewd,  cold-blooded 
creature  ;  my  own  portrait  I  will  not  attempt  to  draw,  but  I 
cannot  recollect  that  it  was  a  strikingly  attractive  one — can 
you?  What  animal  magnetism  drew  thee  and  me  together 
I  know  not ;  certainly  I  never  experienced  anything  of  the 
Pylades  and  Orestes  sentiment  for  you,  and  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  you,  on  your  part,  were  equally  free  from  all 
romantic  regard  to  me.  Still,  out  of  school-hours  we  walked 
and  talked  continually  together ;  when  the  theme  of  conver- 
sation was  our  companions  or  our  masters  we  understood 
each  other,  and  when  I  recurred  to  some  sentiment  of 
affection,  some  vague  love  of  an  excellent  or  beautiful  object, 
whether  in  animate  or  inanimate  nature,  your  sardonic 
coldness  did  not  move  me.  I  felt  myself  superior  to  that 
check  then  as  I  do  now. 

'  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  a  still  longer 


6  THE  PROFESSOR 

time  since  I  saw  you.  Chancing  to  take  up  a  newspaper  of 
your  county  the  other  day,  my  eye  fell  upon  your  name.  I 
began  to  think  of  old  times ;  to  run  over  the  events  which 
have  transpired  since  we  separated ;  and  I  sat  down  and 
commenced  this  letter.  What  you  have  been  doing  I  know 
not ;  but  you  shall  hear,  if  you  choose  to  listen,  how  the 
world  has  wagged  with  me. 

'  First,  after  leaving  Eton,  I  had  an  interview  with  my 
maternal  uncles,  Lord  Tynedale  and  the  Hon.  John  Sea- 
combe.  They  asked  me  if  I  would  enter  the  Church,  and 
my  uncle  the  nobleman  offered  me  the  living  of  Seacombe, 
which  is  in  his  gift,  if  I  would ;  then  my  other  uncle,  Mr. 
Seacombe,  hinted  that  when  I  became  rector  of  Seacombe- 
cum-Scaife,  I  might  perhaps  be  allowed  to  take,  as  mistress 
of  my  house  and  head  of  my  parish,  one  of  my  six  cousins, 
his  daughters,  all  of  whom  I  greatly  dislike. 

1 1  declined  both  the  Church  and  matrimony.  A  good 
clergyman  is  a  good  thing,  but  I  should  have  made  a  very 
bad  one.  As  to  the  wife — oh,  how  like  a  nightmare  is  the 
thought  of  being  bound  for  life  to  one  of  my  cousins !  No 
doubt  they  are  accomplished  and  pretty ;  but  not  an  accom- 
plishment, not  a  charm  of  theirs,  touches  a  chord  in  my 
bosom.  To  think  of  passing  the  winter  evenings  by  the 
parlour  fireside  of  Seacombe  Rectory  alone  with  one  of 
them — for  instance,  the  large  and  well-modelled  statue, 
Sarah — no ;  I  should  be  a  bad  husband,  under  such  circum- 
stances, as  well  as  a  bad  clergyman. 

'  When  I  had  declined  my  uncles'  offers  they  asked  me 
"  what  I  intended  to  do?"  I  said  I  should  reflect.  They 
reminded  me  that  I  had  no  fortune,  and  no  expectation  of 
any,  and,  after  a  considerable  pause,  Lord  Tynedale 
demanded  sternly,  "  Whether  I  had  thoughts  of  following  my 
father's  steps  and  engaging  in  trade?"  Now,  I  had  had  no 
thoughts  of  the  sort.  I  do  not  think  that  my  turn  of  mind 
qualifies  me  to  make  a  good  tradesman ;  my  taste,  my 
ambition  does  not  lie  in  that  way ;  but  such  was  the 
scorn  expressed  in  Lord  Tynedale's  countenance  as  he 


THE  PKOFESSOR  7 

pronounced  the  word  trade — such  the  contemptuous  sarcasm 
of  his  tone — that  I  was  instantly  decided.  My  father  was 
but  a  name  to  me,  yet  that  name  I  did  not  like  to  hear 
mentioned  with  a  sneer  to  my  very  face.  I  answered  then, 
with  haste  and  warmth,  "  I  cannot  do  better  than  follow  in 
my  father's  steps  ;  yes,  I  will  be  a  tradesman."  My  uncles 
did  not  remonstrate ;  they  and  I  parted  with  mutual  disgust. 
In  reviewing  this  transaction,  I  find  that  I  was  quite  right  to 
shake  off  the  burden  of  Tynedale's  patronage,  but  a  fool  to 
offer  my  shoulders  instantly  for  the  reception  of  another 
burden — one  which  might  be  more  intolerable,  and  which 
certainly  was  yet  untried. 

'  I  wrote  instantly  to  Edward — you  know  Edward — my 
only  brother,  ten  years  my  senior,  married  to  a  rich  mill- 
owner's  daughter,  and  now  possessor  of  the  mill  and  busi- 
ness which  was  my  father's  before  he  failed.  You  are 
aware  that  my  father — once  reckoned  a  Croesus  of  wealth — 
became  bankrupt  a  short  time  previous  to  his  death,  and  that 
my  mother  lived  in  destitution  for  some  six  months  after 
him,  unhelped  by  her  aristocratical  brothers,  whom  she  had 
mortally  offended  by  her  union  with  Crimsworth,  the 
— shire  manufacturer.  At  the  end  of  the  six  months  she 
brought  me  into  the  world,  and  then  herself  left  it  without, 
I  should  think,  much  regret,  as  it  contained  little  hope  or 
comfort  for  her. 

'  My  father's  relations  took  charge  of  Edward,  as  they 
did  of  me,  till  I  was  nine  years  old.  At  that  period  it 
chanced  that  the  representation  of  an  important  borough  in 
our  county  fell  vacant ;  Mr.  Seacombe  stood  for  it.  My 
uncle  Crimsworth,  an  astute  mercantile  man,  took  the 
opportunity  of  writing  a  fierce  letter  to  the  candidate, 
stating  that  if  he  and  Lord  Tynedale  did  not  consent  to  do 
something  towards  the  support  of  their  sister's  orphan 
children,  he  would  expose  their  relentless  and  malignant 
conduct  towards  that  sister,  and  do  his  best  to  turn  the 
circumstances  against  Mr.  Seacombe's  election.  That  gentle- 
man and  Lord  T.  knew  well  enough  that  the  Crimsworthg 


8  THE   PROFESSOR 

were  an  unsci-upulous  and  determined  race ;  they  knew  also 

that  they  had  influence  in  the  borough  of  X ;  and, 

making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  they  consented  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  my  education.  I  was  sent  to  Eton,  where  I 
remained  ten  years,  during  which  space  of  time  Edward  and 
I  never  met.  He,  when  he  grew  up,  entered  into  trade,  and 
pursued  his  calling  with  such  diligence,  ability,  and  success, 
that  now,  in  his  thirtieth  year,  he  was  fast  making  a  fortune. 
Of  this  I  was  apprised  by  the  occasional  short  letters  I 
received  from  him,  some  three  or  four  times  a  year;  which 
said  letters  never  concluded  without  some  expression  of 
determined  enmity  against  the  house  of  Seacombe,  and  some 
reproach  to  me  for  living,  as  he  said,  on  the  bounty  of  that 
house.  At  first,  while  still  in  boyhood,  I  could  not  under- 
stand why,  as  I  had  no  parents,  I  should  not  be  indebted  to 
my  uncles  Ty  nod  ale  and  Seacombe  for  my  education  ;  but  as 
I  grew  up,  and  heard  by  degrees  of  the  persevering  hostility, 
the  hatred  till  death  evinced  by  them  against  my  father — of 
the  sufferings  of  my  mother — of  all  the  wrongs,  in  short,  of 
our  house — then  did  I  conceive  shame  of  the  dependence  in 
which  I  lived,  and  form  a  resolution  no  more  to  take  bread 
from  hands  which  had  refused  to  minister  to  the  necessities 
of  my  dying  mother.  It  was  by  these  feelings  I  was 
influenced  when  I  refused  the  Rectory  of  Seacombe,  and  the 
union  with  one  of  my  patrician  cousins. 

'  An  irreparable  breach  thus  being  effected  between  my 
uncles  and  myself,  I  wrote  to  Edward ;  told  him  what  had 
occurred,  and  informed  him  of  my  intention  to  follow  his 
steps  and  be  a  tradesman.  I  asked,  moreover,  if  he  could 
give  me  employment.  His  answer  expressed  no  approbation 

of  my  conduct,  but  he  said  I  might  come  down  to shire, 

if  I  liked,  and  he  would  "  see  what  could  be  done  in  the 
way  of  furnishing  me  with  work."  I  repressed  all — even 
mental  comment  on  his  note — packed  my  trunk  and  carpet- 
bag, and  started  for  the  North  directly. 

'  After  two  days'  travelling  (railroads  were  not  then  in 
existence),  1  arrived,  one  wet  October  afternoon,  in  the  town 


THE  PKOFESSOB  9 

of  X .     I  had  always  understood  that  Edward  lived  in 

this  town,  but  on  inquiry  I  found  that  it  was  only  Mr. 
Crimsworth's  mill  and  warehouse  which  were  situated  in  the 
smoky  atmosphere  of  Bigben  Close ;  his  residence  lay  four 
miles  out,  in  the  country. 

1  It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  I  alighted  at  the  gates 
of  the  habitation  designated  to  me  as  my  brother's.  As  I 
advanced  up  the  avenue,  I  could  see  through  the  shades  of  twi- 
light, and  the  dark  gloomy  mists  which  deepened  those  shades, 
that  the  house  was  large,  and  the  grounds  surrounding  it  suffi- 
ciently spacious.  I  paused  a  moment  on  the  lawn  in  front,  and 
leaning  my  back  against  a  tall  tree  which  rose  in  the  centre, 
I  gazed  with  interest  on  the  exterior  of  Crimsworth  Hall. 

'  "  Edward  is  rich,"  thought  I  to  myself.  "  I  believed  him 
to  be  doing  well — but  I  did  not  know  he  was  master  of  a 
mansion  like  this."  Cutting  short  all  marvelling,  speculation, 
conjecture,  &c.,  I  advanced  to  the  front  door  and  rang.  A 
man-servant  opened  it — I  announced  myself — he  relieved  me 
of  my  wet  cloak  and  carpet-bag,  and  ushered  me  into  a  room 
furnished  as  a  library,  where  there  was  a  bright  fire  and 
candles  burning  on  the  table ;  he  informed  me  that  his 

master  was  not  yet  returned  from  X market,  but  that 

he  would  certainly  be  at  home  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour. 

'  Being  left  to  myself,  I  took  the  stuffed  easy  chair, 
covered  with  red  morocco,  which  stood  by  the  fireside,  and 
while  my  eyes  watched  the  flames  dart  from  the  glowing 
coals,  and  the  cinders  fall  at  intervals  on  the  hearth,  my 
mind  busied  itself  in  conjectures  concerning  the  meeting 
about  to  take  place.  Amidst  much  that  was  doubtful  in  the 
subject  of  these  conjectures,  there  was  one  thing  tolerably 
certain — I  was  in  no  danger  of  encountering  severe  dis- 
appointment ;  from  this,  the  moderation  of  my  expectations 
guaranteed  me.  I  anticipated  no  overflowings  of  fraternal 
tenderness  ;  Edward's  letters  had  always  been  such  as  to 
prevent  the  engendering  or  harbouring  of  delusions  of  this 
sort.  Still,  as  I  sat  awaiting  his  arrival,  I  felt  eager — very 
eager — I  cannot  tell  you  why ;  my  hand,  so  utterly  a 


,10  THE   PROFESSOR 

stranger  to  the  grasp  of  a  kindred  hand,  clenched  itself  to 
repress  the  tremor  with  which  impatience  would  fain  have 
shaken  it. 

1 1  thought  of  my  uncles ;  and  as  I  was  engaged  in 
wondering  whether  Edward's  indifference  would  equal  the 
cold  disdain  I  had  always  experienced  from  them,  I  heard 
the  avenue  gates  open :  wheels  approached  the  house ;  Mr. 
Crimsworth  was  arrived ;  and  after  the  lapse  of  some  minutes, 
and  a  brief  dialogue  between  himself  and  his  servant  in  the 
hall,  his  tread  drew  near  the  library  door — that  tread  alone 
announced  the  master  of  the  house. 

'  I  still  retained  some  confused  recollection  of  Edward  as 
he  was  ten  years  ago — a  tall,  wiry,  raw  youth  ;  now,  as  I 
rose  from  my  seat  and  turned  towards  the  library  door,  I  saw 
a  fine-looking  and  powerful  man,  light-complexioned,  well- 
made,  and  of  athletic  proportions  ;  the  first  glance  made  me 
aware  of  an  air  of  promptitude  and  sharpness,  shown  as  well 
in  his  movements  as  in  his  port,  his  eye,  and  the  general 
expression  of  his  face.  He  greeted  me  with  brevity,  and,  in  the 
moment  of  shaking  hands,  scanned  me  from  head  to  foot ;  he 
took  his  seat  in  the  morocco-covered  arm-chair,  and  motioned 
me  to  another  seat. 

' "  I  expected  you  would  have  called  at  the  counting- 
house  in  the  Close,"  said  he ;  and  his  voice,  I  noticed,  had  an 
abrupt  accent,  probably  habitual  to  him  ;  he  spoke  also  with 
a  guttural  northern  tone,  which  sounded  harsh  in  my  ears, 
accustomed  to  the  silvery  utterance  of  the  South. 

'  "  The  landlord  of  the  inn,  where  the  coach  stopped, 
directed  me  here,"  said  I.  "  I  doubted  at  first  the  accuracy 
of  his  information,  not  being  aware  that  you  had  such  a 
residence  as  this." 

'  "  Oh,  it  is  all  right !  "  he  replied,  "  only  I  was  kept  half 
an  hour  behind  time,  waiting  for  you — that  is  all.  I  thought 
you  must  be  coming  by  the  eight-o'clock  coach." 

'  I  expressed  regret  that  he  had  had  to  wait ;  he  made  no 
answer,  but  stirred  the  fire,  as  if  to  cover  a  movement  of 
impatience;  then  '•<>  '.cunied  me  again. 


THE  PKOFESSOK  11 

'  I  felt  an  inward  satisfaction  that  I  had  not,  in  the  first 
moment  of  meeting,  betrayed  any  warmth,  any  enthusiasm  ; 
that  I  had  saluted  this  man  with  a  quiet  and  steady  phlegm. 

' "  Have  you  quite  broken  with  Tynedale  and  Seacombe  ?  " 
he  asked  hastily. 

"'I  do  not  think  I  shall  have  any  further  communication 
with  them ;  my  refusal  of  their  proposals  will,  I  fancy, 
operate  as  a  barrier  against  all  future  intercourse." 

' "  Why,"  said  he,  "  I  may  as  well  remind  you  at  the 
very  outset  of  our  connection,  that  '  no  man  can  serve  two 
masters.'  Acquaintance  with  Lord  Tynedale  will  be  incom- 
patible with  assistance  from  me."  There  was  a  kind  of 
gratuitous  menace  in  his  eye  as  he  looked  at  me  in  finishing 
this  observation. 

'  Feeling  no  disposition  to  reply  to  him,  I  contented 
myself  with  an  inward  speculation  on  the  differences  which 
exist  in  the  constitution  of  men's  minds.  I  do  not  know  what 
inference  Mr.  Crimsworth  drew  from  my  silence — whether  he 
considered  it  a  symptom  of  contumacity,  or  an  evidence  of 
my  being  cowed  by  his  peremptory  manner.  After  a  long 
and  hard  stare  at  me,  he  rose  sharply  from  his  seat. 

'  "  To-morrow,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  call  your  attention  to 
some  other  points  ;  but  now  it  is  supper-time,  and  Mrs. 
Crimsworth  is  probably  waiting  :  will  you  come  ?  " 

'  He  strode  from  the  room,  and  I  followed.  In  crossing 
the  hall,  I  wondered  what  Mrs.  Crimsworth  might  be.  "  Is 
she,"  thought  I,  "  as  alien  to  what  I  like  as  Tynedale,  Sea- 
combe,  the  Misses  Seacombe — as  the  affectionate  relative 
now  striding  before  me?  or  is  she  better  than  these?  Shall 
I,  in  conversing  with  her,  feel  free  to  show  something  of  my 
real  nature  ;  or —  Further  conjectures  were  arrested  by 

my  entrance  into  the  dining-room. 

'  A  lamp,  burning  under  a  shade  of  ground-glass,  showed 
a  handsome  apartment,  wainscoted  with  oak  ;  supper  was 
laid  on  the  table  ;  by  the  fireplace,  standing  as  if  waiting 
our  entrance,  appeared  a  lady  ;  she  was  young,  tall,  and 
well  shaped ;  her  dress  was  handsome  and  fashionable :  so 


12  THE  PROFESSOB 

much  my  first  glance  sufficed  to  ascertain.  A  gay  salutation 
passed  between  her  and  Mr.  Crimsworth ;  she  chid  him, 
half  playfully,  half  poutingly,  for  being  late ;  her  voice  (I 
always  take  voices  into  the  account  in  judging  of  character) 
was  lively — it  indicated,  I  thought,  good  animal  spirits. 
Mr.  Crimsworth  soon  checked  her  animated  scolding  with  a 
kiss — a  kiss  that  still  told  of  the  bridegroom  (they  had  not 
yet  been  married  a  year) ;  she  took  her  seat  at  the  supper- 
table  in  first-rate  spirits.  Perceiving  me,  she  begged  my 
pardon  for  not  noticing  me  before,  and  then  shook  hands 
with  me,  as  ladies  do  when  a  flow  of  good-humour  disposes 
them  to  be  cheerful  to  all,  even  the  most  indifferent  of  their 
acquaintance.  It  was  now  further  obvious  to  me  that  she 
had  a  good  complexion,  and  features  sufficiently  marked  but 
agreeable  ;  her  hair  was  red — quite  red.  She  and  Edward 
talked  much,  always  in  a  vein  of  playful  contention  ;  she 
was  vexed,  or  pretended  to  be  vexed,  that  he  had  that  day 
driven  a  vicious  horse  in  the  gig,  and  he  made  light  of  her 
fears.  Sometimes  she  appealed  to  me. 

'  "  Now,  Mr.  William,  isn't  it  absurd  in  Edward  to  talk 
so  ?  He  says  he  will  drive  Jack,  and  no  other  horse,  and 
the  brute  has  thrown  him  twice  already." 

'  She  spoke  with  a  kind  of  lisp,  not  disagreeable,  but 
childish.  I  soon  saw  also  that  there  was  more  than  girlish 
— a  somewhat  infantine  expression  in  her  by  no  means  small 
features  ;  this  lisp  and  expression  were,  I  have  no  doubt,  a 
charm  in  Edward's  eyes,  and  would  be  so  to  those  of  most 
men,  but  they  were  not  to  mine.  I  sought  her  eye,  desirous 
to  read  there  the  intelligence  which  I  could  not  discern  in 
her  face  or  hear  in  her  conversation  ;  it  was  merry,  rather 
small ;  by  turns  I  saw  vivacity,  vanity,  coquetry,  look  out 
through  its  irid,  but  I  watched  in  vain  for  a  glimpse  of  soul. 
I  am  no  Oriental ;  white  necks,  carmine  lips  and  cheeks, 
clusters  of  bright  curls,  do  not  suffice  for  me  without  that 
Promethean  spark  which  will  live  after  the  roses  and  lilies  are 
faded,  the  burnished  hair  grown  grey.  In  sunshine,  in 
prosperity,  the  flowers  are  very  well ;  but  how  many  wet 


THE  PfcOtfE&SOfc  13 

days  are  there  in  life — November  seasons  of  disaster,  when 
a  man's  hearth  and  home  would  be  cold  indeed  without  the 
clear,  cheering  gleam  of  intellect. 

'  Having  perused  the  fair  page  of  Mrs.  Crimsworth's  face, 
a  deep,  involuntary  sigh  announced  my  disappointment ;  she 
took  it  as  a  homage  to  her  beauty,  and  Edward,  who  was 
evidently  proud  of  his  rich  and  handsome  young  wife,  threw 
on  me  a  glance — half  ridicule,  half  ire. 

'  I  turned  from  them  both,  and  gazing  wearily  round  the 
room,  I  saw  two  pictures  set  in  the  oak  panelling — one  on 
each  side  the  mantel-piece.  Ceasing  to  take  part  in  the 
bantering  conversation  that  flowed  on  between  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Crimsworth,  I  bent  my  thoughts  to  the  examination  of  these 
pictures.  They  were  portraits — a  lady  and  a  gentleman, 
both  costumed  in  the  fashion  of  twenty  years  ago.  The 
gentleman  was  in  the  shade.  I  could  not  see  him  well.  The 
lady  had  the  benefit  of  a  full  beam  from  the  softly-shaded 
lamp.  I  presently  recognised  her ;  I  had  seen  this  picture 
before  in  childhood  ;  it  was  my  mother ;  that  and  the  com- 
panion picture  being  the  only  heirlooms  saved  out  of  the 
sale  of  my  father's  property. 

'  The  face,  I  remembered,  had  pleased  me  as  a  boy,  but 
then  I  did  not  understand  it ;  noio  I  knew  how  rare  that  class 
of  face  is  in  the  world,  and  I  appreciated  keenly  its  thought- 
ful, yet  gentle  expression.  The  serious  grey  eye  possessed 
for  me  a  strong  charm,  as  did  certain  lines  in  the  features 
indicative  of  most  true  and  tender  feeling.  I  was  sorry  it 
was  only  a  picture. 

'  I  soon  left  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crimsworth  to  themselves  ;  a 
servant  conducted  me  to  my  bed-room ;  in  closing  my 
chamber-door,  I  shut  out  all  intruders — you,  Charles,  as  well 
as  the  rest. 

'  Good-by  for  the  present, 

'  WILLIAM  CRIMSWORTH.' 

To  this  letter  I  never  got  an  answer ;  before  my  old 
friend  received  il,  lie  had  accepted  a  Government  appoint- 


U  THE  PEOFESSOE 

ment  in  one  of  the  colonies,  and  was  already  on  his  way  to 
the  scene  of  his  official  labours.  What  has  become  of  him 
since,  I  know  not. 

The  leisure  time  I  have  at  command,  and  which  I  intended 
to  employ  for  his  private  benefit,  I  shall  now  dedicate  to 
that  of  the  public  at  large.  My  narrative  is  not  exciting, 
and  above  all,  not  marvellous  ;  but  it  may  interest  some 
individuals,  who,  having  toiled  in  the  same  vocation  as 
myself,  will  find  in  my  experience  frequent  reflections  of 
their  own.  The  above  letter  will  serve  as  an  introduction. 
I  now  proceed. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  FINE  October  morning  succeeded  to  the  foggy  evening  that 
had  witnessed  my  first  introduction  to  Crimsworth  Hall.  I 
was  early  up  and  walking  in  the  large  park-like  meadow 
surrounding  the  house.  The  autumn  sun,  rising  over  the 
— shire  hills,  disclosed  a  pleasant  country ;  woods  brown 
and  mellow  varied  the  fields  from  which  the  harvest  had  been 
lately  carried  ;  a  river,  gliding  between  the  woods,  caught 
on  its  surface  the  somewhat  cold  gleam  of  the  October  sun 
and  sky ;  at  frequent  intervals  along  the  hanks  of  the  river, 
tall,  cylindrical  chimneys,  almost  like  slender  round  towers, 
indicated  the  factories  which  the  trees  half  concealed ;  here 
and  there  mansions,  similar  to  Crimsworth  Hall,  occupied 
agreeable  sites  on  the  hill-side ;  the  country  wore,  on  the 
whole,  a  cheerful,  active,  fertile  look.  Steam,  trade, 
machinery  had  long  banished  from  it  all  romance  and 
seclusion.  At  a  distance  of  five  miles,  a  valley  opening 
between  the  low  hills,  held  in  its  cups  the  great  town  of 

X .       A   dense,   permanent  vapour  brooded    over  this 

locality — there  lay  Edward's  '  Concern.' 

I  forced  my  eye  to  scrutinise  this  prospect,  I  forced  my 
mind  to  dwell  on  it  for  a  time,  and  when  I  found  that  it 
communicated  no  pleasurable  emotion  to  my  heart — that  it 
stirred  in  me  none  of  the  hopes  a  man  ought  to  feel,  when 
he  sees  laid  before  him  the  scene  of  his  life's  career — I  said 
to  myself,  '  William,  you  are  a  rebel  against  circumstances  ; 
you  are  a  fool,  and  know  not  what  you  want ;  you  have 
chosen  trade,  and  you  shall  be  a  tradesman.  Look  !  '  I  con- 
tinued mentally — '  Look  at  the  sooty  smoke  in  that  hollow, 


16  THE   PROFESSOR 

and  know  that  there  is  your  post !  There  you  cannot 
diearn,  you  cannot  speculate  and  theorise — there  you  shall 
out  and  work  !  ' 

Thus  self  schooled,  I  returned  to  the  house.  My  brother 
was  in  the  breakfast-room.  I  met  him  collectedly — I  could 
not  meet  him  cheerfully ;  he  was  standing  on  the  rug,  his 
back  to  the  fire — how  much  did  I  read  in  the  expression  of 
his  eye  as  my  glance  encountered  his,  when  I  advanced  to 
bid  him  good-morning ;  how  much  that  was  contradictory  to 
my  nature !  He  said  '  Good-morning  '  abruptly  and  nodded, 
and  then  he  snatched,  rather  than  took,  a  newspaper  from 
the  table,  and  began  to  read  it  with  the  air  of  a  master  who 
seizes  a  pretext  to  escape  the  bore  of  conversing  with  an 
underling.  It  was  well  I  had  taken  a  resolution  to  endure 
for  a  time,  or  his  manner  would  have  gone  far  to* render 
insupportable  the  disgust  I  had  just  been  endeavouring  to 
subdue.  I  looked  at  him  :  I  measured  his  robust  frame  and 
powerful  proportions  ;  I  saw  my  own  reflection  in  the  mirror 
over  the  mantel-piece;  I  amused  myself  with  comparing  the 
two  pictures.  In  face  I  resembled  him,  though  I  was  not  so 
handsome ;  my  features  were  less  regular ;  I  had  a  darker 
eye,  and  a  broader  brow — in  form  I  was  greatly  inferior — 
thinner,  slighter,  not  so  tall.  As  an  animal,  Edward  excelled 
me  far;  should  he  prove  as  paramount  in  mind  as  in  person 
I  must  be  a  slave — for  I  must  expect  from  him  no  lion-like 
generosity  to  one  weaker  than  himself ;  his  cold,  avaricious 
eye,  his  stern,  forbidding  manner  told  me  he  would  not  spare. 
Had  I  then  force  of  mind  to  cope  with  him?  I  did  not 
know  ;  I  had  never  been  tried. 

Mrs.  Crimsworth's  entrance  diverted  my  thoughts  for  a 
moment.  She  looked  well,  dressed  in  white,  her  face  and 
her  attire  shining  in  morning  and  bridal  freshness.  I 
addressed  her  with  the  degree  of  ease  her  last  night's  care- 
less gaiety  seemed  to  warrant,  but  she  replied  with  coolness 
and  restraint :  her  husband  had  tutored  her  ;  she  was  not  to 
be  too  familiar  with  his  clerk. 

As     soon     as     breakfast    was     over     Mr.     Crimsworth 


THE  PKOPESSOE  17 

intimated  to  me  that  they  were  bringing  the  gig  round  to  the 
door,  and  that  in  five  minutes  he  should  expect  me  to  be 

ready  to  go  down  with  him  to  X .  I  did  not  keep  him 

waiting;  we  were  soon  dashing  at  a  rapid  rate  along  the 
road.  The  horse  he  drove  was  the  same  vicious  animal 
about  which  Mrs.  Crimsworth  had  expressed  her  fears  the 
night  before.  Once  or  twice  Jack  seemed  disposed  to  turn 
restive,  but  a  vigorous  and  determined  application  of  the 
whip  from  the  ruthless  hand  of  his  master  soon  compelled 
him  to  submission,  and  Edward's  dilated  nostril  expressed 
his  triumph  in  the  result  of  the  contest ;  he  scarcely  spoke 
to  me  during  the  whole  of  the  brief  drive,  only  opening  his 
lips  at  intervals  to  damn  his  horse. 

X was  all  stir  and  bustle  when  we  entered  it ;  we 

left  the  clean  streets  where  there  were  dwelling-houses  and 
shops,  chui'ches,  and  public  buildings  ;  we  left  all  these,  and 
turned  down  to  a  region  of  mills  and  warehouses  ;  thence  we 
passed  through  two  massive  gates  into  a  great  paved  yard, 
and  we  were  in  Bigben  Close,  and  the  mill  was  before  us, 
vomiting  soot  from  its  long  chimney,  and  quivering  through 
its  thick  brick  walls  with  the  commotion  of  its  iron  bowels. 
Workpeople  were  passing  to  and  fro ;  a  waggon  was  being 
laden  with  pieces.  Mr.  Crimsworth  looked  from  side  to  side, 
and  seemed  at  one  glance  to  comprehend  all  that  was  going 
on ;  he  alighted,  and  leaving  his  horse  and  gig  to  the  care 
of  a  man  who  hastened  to  take  the  reins  from  his  hand,  he 
bid  me  follow  him  to  the  counting-house.  We  entered  it ; 
a  very  different  place  from  the  parlours  of  Crimsworth  Hall — 
a  place  for  business,  with  a  bare,  planked  floor,  a  safe,  two 
high  desks  and  stools,  and  some  chairs.  A  person  was 
seated  at  one  of  the  desks,  who  took  off  his  square  cap  when 
Mr.  Crimsworth  entered,  and  in  an  instant  was  again 
absorbed  in  his  occupation  of  writing  or  calculating — I  know 
not  which. 

Mr.  Crimsworth,  having  removed  his  mackintosh,  sat 
down  by  the  fire.  I  remained  standing  near  the  hearth  ;  he 
said  presently — '  Steighton  you  may  leave  the  room ;  I  have 


13  THE   PROFESSOR 

some  business  to  transact  with  this  gentleman.  Come  back 
when  you  hear  the  bell.' 

The  individual  at  the  desk  rose  and  depai'ted,  closing  the 
door  as  he  went  out.  Mr.  Crimsworth  stirred  the  fire,  then 
folded  his  arms,  and  sat  a  moment  thinking,  his  lips  com- 
pressed, his  brow  knit.  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch 
him — how  well  his  features  were  cut !  what  a  handsome  man 
he  was !  Whence,  then,  came  that  air  of  contraction — 
that  narrow  and  hard  aspect  on  his  forehead,  in  all  his 
lineaments  ? 

Turning  to  me  he  began  abruptly  : — '  You  are  come  down 
to shire  to  learn  to  be  a  tradesman  ? ' 

1  Yes,  I  am.' 

'  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  on  the  point  ?  Let  me 
know  that  at  once.' 

'  Yes.' 

1  Well,  I  am  not  bound  to  help  you,  but  I  have  a  place 
here  vacant,  if  you  are  qualified  for  it.  I  will  take  you  on 
trial.  What  can  you  do  ?  Do  you  know  anything  besides 
that  useless  trash  of  college  learning — Greek,  Latin,  and  so 
forth? 

'  I  have  studied  mathematics.' 

'  Stuff !     I  daresay  you  have.' 

'  I  can  read  and  write  French  and  German.' 

'  Hum  ! '  He  reflected  a  moment,  then  opening  a  drawer 
in  a  desk  near  him  took  out  a  letter,  and  gave  it  to  me. 

'  Can  you  read  that  ?  '  he  asked. 

It  was  a  German  commercial  letter;  I  translated  it;  I 
could  not  tell  whether  he  was  gratified  or  not — his  counten- 
ance remained  fixed. 

'It  is  well,'  he  said,  after  a  pause,  ' that  you  are 
acquainted  with  something  useful,  something  that  may 
enable  you  to  earn  your  board  and  lodging  :  since  you  know 
French  and  German,  I  will  take  you  as  second  clerk  to 
manage  the  foreign  correspondence  of  the  house.  I  shall  give 
you  a  good  salary — 901.  a  year — and  now,'  he  continued, 
raising  his  voice,  '  hear  once  for  all  what  I  have  to  say  about 


THE   PROFESSOR  19 

our  relationship,  and  all  that  sort  of  humbug  !  I  must  have 
no  nonsense  on  that  point ;  it  would  never  suit  me.  I  shall 
excuse  you  nothing  on  the  plea  of  being  my  brother ;  if  I 
find  you  stupid,  negligent,  dissipated,  idle,  or  possessed  of 
any  faults  detrimental  to  the  interests  of  the*  house,  I  shall 
dismiss  you  as  I  would  any  other  clerk.  Ninety  pounds  a 
year  are  good  wages,  and  I  expect  to  have  the  full  value  of 
my  money  out  of  you  ;  remember,  too,  that  things  are  on  a 
practical  footing  in  my  establishment— business-like  habits, 
feelings,  and  ideas,  suit  me  best.  Do  you  understand  ? ' 

'Partly,'  I  replied.  'I  suppose  you  mean  that  I  am  to 
do  my  work  for  my  wages ;  not  to  expect  favour  from  you, 
and  not  to  depend  on  you  for  any  help  but  what  I  earn  ;  that 
suits  me  exactly,  and  on  these  terms  I  will  consent  to  be 
your  clerk.' 

I  turned  on  my  heel,  and  walked  to  the  window;  this 
time  I  did  not  consult  his  face  to  learn  his  opinion  :  what  it 
was  I  do  not  know,  nor  did  I  then  care.  After  a  silence  of 
some  minutes  he  recommenced  : — '  You  perhaps  expect  to  be 
accommodated  with  apartments  at  Crimsworbh  Hall,  and  to  go 
and  come  with  me  in  the  gig.  I  wish  you,  however,  to  be 
aware  that  such  an  arrangement  would  be  quite  inconvenient 
to  me.  I  like  to  have  the  seat  in  my  gig  at  liberty  for  any 
gentleman  whom  for  business  reasons  I  may  wish  to  take 
down  to  the  Hall  for  a  night  or  so.  You  will  seek  out 
lodgings  in  X .' 

Quitting  the  window,  I  walked  back  to  the  hearth. 

'  Of  course  I  shall  seek  out  lodgings  in  X ,'  I  answered. 

'It  would  not  suit  me  either  to  lodge  at  Crimsworth  Hall.' 

My  tone  was  quiet.  I  always  speak  quietly.  Yet  Mr. 
Crimsworth's  blue  eye  became  incensed ;  he  took  his  revenge 
rather  oddly.  Turning  to  me  he  said  bluntly — '  You  are 
poor  enough,  I  suppose  ;  how  do  you  expect  to  live  till  your 
quarter's  salary  becomes  due  ?  ' 

'  I  shall  get  on,'  said  I. 

'  How  do  you  expect  to  live  ? '  he  repeated  in  a  louder 
voice. 


20  THE  PROFESSOR 

As  I  can,'  Mr.  Crimsworth. 

'  Get  into  debt  at  your  peril !  that's  all,'  he  answered. 
'For  aught  I  know  you  may  have  extravagant  aristo- 
cratic habits  :  if  you  have,  drop  them  ;  I  tolerate  nothing  of 
the  sort  here,  and  I  will  never  give  you  a  shilling  extra, 
whatever  liabilities  you  may  incur — mind  that.' 

'  Yes,  Mr.  Crimsworth,  you  will  find  I  have  a  good 
memory.' 

I  said  no  more.  I  did  not  think  the  time  was  come  for 
much  parley.  I  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  it  would  be 
folly  to  let  one's  temper  effervesce  often  with  such  a  man  as 
Edward.  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  will  place  my  cup  under  this 
continual  dropping ;  it  shall  stand  there  still  and  steady ; 
when  full,  it  will  run  over  of  itself — meantime  patience. 
Two  things  are  certain.  I  am  capable  of  performing  the 
work  Mr.  Crimsworth  has  set  me ;  I  can  earn  my  wages 
conscientiously,  and  those  wages  are  sufficient  to  enable  me  to 
live.  As  to  the  fact  of  my  brother  assuming  towards  me  the 
bearing  of  a  proud,  harsh  master,  the  fault  is  his,  not  mine ; 
and  shall  his  injustice,  his  bad  feeling,  turn  me  at  once  aside 
from  the  path  I  have  chosen  ?  No ;  at  least,  ere  I  deviate, 
I  will  advance  far  enough  to  see  whither  my  career  tends. 
As  yet  I  am  only  pressing  in  at  the  entrance — a  strait  gate 
enough ;  it  ought  to  have  a  good  terminus.'  While  I  thus 
reasoned,  Mr.  Crimsworth  rang  a  bell ;  his  first  clerk,  the 
individual  dismissed  previously  to  our  conference,  re-entered. 

'  Mr.  Steighton,'  said  he,  '  show  Mr.  William  the  letters 
from  Voss  Brothers,  and  give  him  English  copies  of  the 
answers  ;  he  will  translate  them.' 

Mr.  Steighton,  a  man  of  about  thirty-five,  with  a  face  at 
once  sly  and  heavy,  hastened  to  execute  this  order  ;  he  laid 
the  letters  on  the  desk,  and  I  was  soon  seated  at  it,  and 
engaged  in  rendering  the  English  answers  into  German.  A 
sentiment  of  keen  pleasure  accompanied  this  first  effort  to 
earn  my  own  living — a  sentiment  neither  poisoned  nor 
weakened  by  the  presence  of  the  taskmaster,  who  stood  and 
watched  me  for  some  time  as  I  wrote.  I  thought  he  was  trying 


THE  PROFESSOR  21 

to  read  my  character,  but  I  felt  as  secure  against  his  scrutiny 
as  if  I  had  had  on  a  casque  with  the  visor  down — or  rather  I 
showed  him  my  countenance  with  the  confidence  that  one 
would  show  an  unlearned  man  a  letter  written  in  Greek ;  he 
might  see  lines,  and  trace  characters,  but  he  could  make 
nothing  of  them ;  my  nature  was  not  his  nature,  and  its  signs 
were  to  him  like  the  words  of  an  unknown  tongue.  Ere  long 
he  turned  away  abruptly,  as  if  baffled,  and  left  the  counting- 
house  ;  he  returned  to  it  but  twice  in  the  course  of  that  day  ; 
each  time  he  mixed  and  swallowed  a  glass  of  brandy-and- 
water,  the  materials  for  making  which  he  extracted  from  a 
cupboard  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace ;  having  glanced  at  my 
translations — he  could  read  both  French  and  German — he 
went  out  again  in  silence. 


CHAPTEE   III 

I  SERVED  Edward  as  his  second  clerk  faithfully,  punctually, 
diligently.     What  was  given  me  to  do  I  had  the  power  and 
the  determination   to   do   well.     Mr.    Crimsworth   watched 
sharply   for   defects,    but    found    none  ;    he    set    Timothy 
Steighton,  his  favourite  and  head  man,  to  watch  also.     Tim 
was  baffled  ;  I  was  as  exact  as  himself,  and  quicker.     Mr. 
Crimsworth  made  inquiries  as  to  how  I  lived,  whether  I  got 
into  debt — no,  my  accounts  with  my  landlady  were  always 
straight.    I  had  hired  small  lodgings,  which  I  contrived  to  pay 
for  out  of  a  slender  fund — the  accumulated  savings  of  my  Eton 
pocket-money  ;   for  as  it  had   ever   been  abhorrent   to   my 
nature   to   ask   pecuniary  assistance,  I  had   early  acquired 
habits  of  self-denying  economy  ;    husbanding  my  monthly 
allowance  with  anxious  care,  in  order  to  obviate  the  danger 
of  being  forced,  in  some  moment  of  future  exigency,  to  beg 
additional  aid.     I  remember  many  called  me  miser  at  the 
time,  and  I  used  to  couple  the  reproach  with  this  consolation 
— better  to  be  misunderstood  now  than  repulsed  hereafter. 
At  this  day  I  had  my  reward  ;  I  had  had  it  before,  when  on 
parting  with  my  irritated  uncles  one  of  them  threw  down  on 
the  table  before  me  a  51.  note,  which  I  was  able  to  leave 
there,  saying  that  my  travelling  expenses  were  already  pro- 
vided  for.      Mr.    Crimsworth    employed   Tim   to   find   out 
whether  my  landlady  had  any  complaint   to   make  on  the 
score  of  my  morals  ;  she  answered  that  she  believed  I  was  a 
very  religious  man,  and  asked  Tim,  in  her  turn,  if  he  thought 
I  had  any  intention  of  going  into  the  Church  some  day  ;  for, 
she  said,  she  had  had  young  curates  to  lodge  in  her  house 
who  were  nothing  equal  to  me  for  steadiness  and  quietness. 


THE  PKOFESSOR  23 

Tim  was  '  a  religious  man '  himself ;  indeed,  he  was  '  a 
joined  Methodist,'  which  did  not  (be  it  understood)  prevent 
him  from  being  at  the  same  time  an  ingrained  rascal,  and  he 
came  away  much  posed  at  hearing  this  account  of  my  piety. 
Having  imparted  it  to  Mr.  Crimsworth,  that  gentleman,  who 
himself  frequented  no  place  of  worship,  and  owned  no  God 
but  Mammon,  turned  the  information  into  a  weapon  of  attack 
against  the  equability  of  my  temper.  He  commenced  a  series 
of  covert  sneers,  of  which  I  did  not  at  first  perceive  the  drift, 
till  my  landlady  happened  to  relate  the  conversation  she 
had  had  with  Mr.  Steighton ;  this  enlightened  me  :  after- 
wards I  came  to  the  counting-house  prepared,  and  managed 
to  receive  the  millowner's  blasphemous  sarcasms,  when  next 
levelled  at  me,  on  a  buckler  of  impenetrable  indifference. 
Ere  long  he  tired  of  wasting  his  ammunition  on  a  statue,  but 
he  did  not  throw  away  the  shafts — he  only  kept  them  quiet 
in  his  quiver. 

Once  during  my  clerkship  I  had  an  invitation  to  Crims- 
worth Hall ;  it  was  on  the  occasion  of  a  large  party  given  in 
honour  of  the  master's  birthday ;  he  had  always  been 
accustomed  to  invite  his  clerks  on  similar  anniversaries,  and 
could  not  well  pass  me  over ;  I  was,  however,  kept  strictly 
in  the  background.  Mrs.  Crimsworth,  elegantly  dressed  in 
satin  and  lace,  blooming  in  youth  and  health,  vouchsafed 
me  no  more  notice  than  was  expressed  by  a  distant  move ; 
Crimsworth,  of  course,  never  spoke  to  me  ;  I  was  introduced 
to  none  of  the  band  of  young  ladies,  who,  enveloped  in 
silvery  clouds  of  white  gauze  and  muslin,  sat  in  array  against 
me  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  long  and  large  room ;  in  fact,  I 
was  fairly  isolated,  and  could  but  contemplate  the  shining 
ones  from  afar,  and  when  weary  of  such  a  dazzling  scene, 
turn  for  a  change  to  the  consideration  of  the  carpet  pattern. 
Mr.  Crimsworth,  standing  on  the  rug,  his  elbow  supported  by 
the  marble  mantelpiece,  and  about  him  a  group  of  very  pretty 
girls,  with  whom  he  conversed  gaily — Mr.  Crimsworth,  thus 
placed,  glanced  at  me  ;  I  looked  weary,  solitary,  kepi,  down 
like  some  desolate  tutor  or  governess  ;  he  was  satisfied. 


24  THE  PBOFESSOR 

Dancing  began ;  I  should  have  liked  well  enough  to  be 
introduced  to  some  pleasing  and  intelligent  girl,  and  to  have 
freedom  and  opportunity  to  show  that  I  could  both  feel  and 
communicate  the  pleasure  of  social  intercourse — that  I  was 
not,  in  short,  a  block,  or  a  piece  of  furniture,  but  an  acting, 
thinking,  sentient  man.  Many  smiling  faces  and  graceful 
figures  glided  past  me,  but  the  smiles  were  lavished  on  other 
eyes,  the  figures  sustained  by  other  hands  than  mine.  I 
turned  away  tantalised,  left  the  dancers,  and  wandered  into 
the  oak-panelled  dining-room.  No  fibre  of  sympathy  united 
me  to  any  living  thing  in  this  house  ;  I  looked  for  and  found 
my  mother's  picture.  I  took  a  wax  taper  from  a  stand,  and 
held  it  up.  I  gazed  long,  earnestly  ;  my  heart  grew .  to  the 
image.  My  mother,  I  perceived,  had  bequeathed  to  me  much 
of  her  features  and  countenance— her  forehead,  her  eyes,  her 
complexion.  No  regular  beauty  pleases  egotistical  human 
beings  so  much  as  a  softened  and  refined  likeness  of  them- 
selves ;  for  this  reason,  fathers  regard  with  complacency  the 
lineaments  of  their  daughters'  faces,  where  frequently  their 
own  similitude  is  found  flatteringly  associated  with  softness 
of  hue  and  delicacy  of  outline.  I  was  just  wondering  how 
that  picture,  to  me,  so  interesting,  would  strike  an  impartial 
spectator,  when  a  voice  close  behind  me  pronounced  the 
words — '  Humph  !  there's  some  sense  in  that  face.' 

I  turned ;  at  my  elbow  stood  a  tall  man,  young,  though 
probably  five  or  six  years  older  than  I — in  other  respects  of 
an  appearance  the  opposite  to  commonplace  ;  though  just 
now,  as  I  am  not  disposed  to  paint  his  portrait  in  detail,  the 
reader  must  be  content  with  the  silhouette  I  have  just  thrown 
off ;  it  was  all  I  myself  saw  of  him  for  the  moment :  I  did 
not  investigate  the  colour  of  his  eyebrows,  nor  of  his  eyes 
either ;  I  saw  his  stature,  and  the  outline  of  his  shape ;  I 
saw,  too,  his  fastidious-looking  retrouss6  nose  ;  these  observa- 
tions, few  in  number,  and  general  in  character  (the  last 
excepted),  sufficed,  for  they  enabled  me  to  recognise  him. 

'  Good-evening,  Mr.  Hunsden,'  muttered  I,  with  a  bow 
and  then,  like  a  shy  noodle  as  I  wras,  I  began  moving  away 


THE  PfcOFESSOit  25 

— and  why?  Simply  because  Mr.  Hunsden  was  a  manu- 
facturer and  a  millowner,  and  I  was  only  a  clerk,  and  my 
instinct  propelled  me  from  my  superior.  I  had  frequently 
seen  Hunsden  in  Bigben  Close,  where  he  came  almost 
weekly  to  transact  business  with  Mr.  Grimsworth,  but  I  had 
never  spoken  to  him,  nor  he  to  me,  and  I  owed  him  a  sort  of 
involuntary  grudge,  because  he  had  more  than  once  been  the 
tacit  witness  of  insults  offered  by  Edward  to  me.  I  had  the 
conviction  that  he  could  only  regard  me  as  a  poor-spirited 
slave,  wherefore  I  now  went  about  to  shun  his  presence  and 
eschew  his  conversation. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ? '  asked  he,  as  I  edged  off  side- 
ways. I  had  already  noticed  that  Mr.  Hunsden  indulged  in 
abrupt  forms  of  speech,  and  I  perversely  said  to  myself — 

'  He  thinks  he  may  speak  as  he  likes  to  a  poor  clerk ;  but 
my  mood  is  not,  perhaps,  so  supple  as  he  deems  it,  and  his 
rough  freedom  pleases  me  not  at  all.' 

I  made  some  slight  reply,  rather  indifferent  than  courte- 
ous, and  continued  to  move  away.  He  coolly  planted 
himself  in  my  path. 

'  Stay  here  awhile,'  said  he :  'it  is  so  hot  in  the  dancing- 
room  ;  besides,  you  don't  dance  ;  you  have  not  had  a  partner 
to-night.' 

He  was  right,  and  as  he  spoke  neither  his  look,  tone,  nor 
manner  displeased  me  ;  my  amour-propre  was  propitiated  ; 
he  had  not  addressed  me  out  of  condescension,  but  because, 
having  repaired  to  the  cool  dining-room  for  refreshment,  he 
now  wanted  some  one  to  talk  to,  by  way  of  temporary 
amusement.  I  hate  to  be  condescended  to,  but  I  like  well 
enough  to  oblige  ;  I  stayed. 

'  That  is  a  good  picture,'  he  continued,  recurring  to  the 
portrait. 

Do  you  consider  the  face  pretty  ? '  I  asked. 

'  Pretty  !  no- — how  can  it  be  pretty,  with  sunk  eyes  and 
hollow  cheeks  ?  but  it  is  peculiar ;  it  seems  to  think.  You 
could  have  a  talk  with  that  woman,  if  she  were  alive,  on 
other  subjects  than  dress,  visiting,  and  compliments.' 


26  THE  PEOFESSOR 

I  agreed  with  him,  but  did  not  say  so.     He  went  on. 

'  Not  that  I  admire  a  head  of  that  sort ;  it  wants 
character  and  force  ;  there's  too  much  of  the  sen-si-tive  '  (so 
he  articulated  it,  curling  his  lip  at  the  same  time)  '  in  that 
mouth  ;  besides,  there  is  Aristocrat  written  on  the  brow  and 
defined  in  the  figure ;  I  hate  your  aristocrats.' 

'  You  think,  then,  Mr.  Hunsden,  that  patrician  descent 
may  be  read  in  a  distinctive  cast  of  form  and  features  ?  ' 

'  Patrician  descent  be  hanged.  Who  doubts  that  your 
lordlings  may  have  their  distinctive  "  cast  of  form  and 
features"  as  much  as  we  -  — shire  tradesmen  have  ours? 
But  which  is  the  best  ?  Not  theirs  assuredly.  As  to  their 
women,  it  is  a  little  different ;  they  cultivate  beauty  from 
childhood  upwards,  and  may  by  care  and  training  attain  to 
a  certain  degree  of  excellence  in  that  point,  just  like  the 
Oriental  odalisques.  Yet  even  this  superiority  is  doubtful. 
Compare  the  figure  in  that  frame  with  Mrs.  Edward  Crims- 
worth — which  is  the  finer  animal  ? ' 

I  replied  quietly :  '  Compare  yourself  and  Mr.  Edward 
Crimsworth,  Mr.  Hunsden.' 

'  Oh,  Crimsworth  is  better  filled  up  than  I  am,  I  know ; 
besides,  he  has  a  straight  nose,  arched  eyebrows,  and  all 
that ;  but  these  advantages,  if  they  are  advantages,  he  did 
not  inherit  from  his  mother,  the  patrician,  but  from  his 
father,  old  Crimsworth,  who,  my  father  says,  was  as  verit- 
able a  -  — shire  blue-dyer  as  ever  put  indigo  in  a  vat ;  yet 
withal  the  handsomest  man  in  the  three  Hidings.  It  is  you, 
William,  who  are  the  aristocrat  of  your  family,  and  you  are 
not  as  fine  a  fellow  as  your  plebeian  brother  by  a  long 
chalk.' 

There  was  something  in  Mr.  Hunsden's  point-blank 
mode  of  speech  which  rather  pleased  me  than  otherwise, 
because  it  set  me  at  my  ease.  I  continued  the  conversation 
with  a  degree  of  interest. 

'How  do  you  happen  to  know  that  I  am  Mr.  Crims- 
worth's  brother  ?  I  thought  you  and  everybody  else  looked 
upon  me  only  in  the  light  of  a  poor  clerk  ? ' 


THE  PROFESSOR  27 

'Well,  and  so  we  do;  and  what  are  you  but  a  poor 
clerk  ?  You  do  Crimsworth's  work,  and  he  gives  you  wages 
— shabby  wages  they  are,  too.' 

I  was  silent.  Hunsden's  language  now  bordered  on  the 
impertinent,  still  his  manner  did  not  offend  me  in  the  least 
—it  only  piqued  my  curiosity ;  I  wanted  him  to  go  on, 
which  he  did  in  a  little  while. 

'  This  world  is  an  absurd  one,'  said  he. 

I  Why  so,  Mr.  Hunsden  ?  ' 

I 1  wonder  you  should  ask  :  you  are  yourself  a  strong 
proof  of  the  absurdity  I  allude  to.' 

I  was  determined  he  should  explain  himself  of  his  own 
accord,  without  my  pressing  him  so  to  do — so  I  resumed  my 
silence. 

'Is  it  your  intention  to  become  a  tradesman?'  he 
inquired  presently. 

'  It  was  my  serious  intention  three  months  ago.' 

'  Humph  !  the  more  fool  you — you  look  like  a  trades- 
man !  What  a  practical  business-like  face  you  have  ! ' 

'  My  face  is  as  the  Lord  made  it,  Mr.  Hunsden.' 

'  The  Lord  never  made  either  your  face  or  head  for 

X .  What  good  can  your  bumps  of  ideality,  comparison, 

self-esteem,  conscientiousness,  do  you  here?  But  if  you 
like  Bigben  Close,  stay  there;  it's  your  own  affair,  not 
mine.' 

'  Perhaps  I  have  no  choice.' 

'  Well,  I  care  nought  about  it — it  will  make  little  differ- 
ence to  me  what  you  do  or  where  you  go  ;  but  I'm  cool  now 
— I  want  to  dance  again  ;  and  I  see  such  a  fine  girl  sitting 
in  the  corner  of  the  sofa  there  by  her  mamma ;  see  if  I  don't 
get  her  for  a  partner  in  a  jiffy !  There's  Waddy — Sam 
Waddy  making  up  to  her  :  won't  I  cut  him  out  ?  ' 

And  Mr.  Hunsden  strode  away.  I  watched  him  through 
the  open  folding-doors  ;  he  outstripped  Waddy,  applied  for 
the  hand  of  the  fine  girl,  and  led  her  off  triumphant.  She 
was  a  tall,  well-made,  full-formed,  dashingly-dressed  young 
woman,  much  in  the  style  of  Mrs.  E.  Crimsworth  ;  Hunsden 


28  THE   PKOFESSOE 

whirled  her  through  the  waltz  with  spirit ;  he  kept  at  her 
side  during  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  and  I  read  in  her 
animated  and  gratified  countenance  that  he  succeeded  in 
making  himself  perfectly  agreeable.  The  mamma  too  (a  stout 
person  in  a  turban — Mrs.  Lupton  by  name)  looked  well 
pleased ;  prophetic  visions  probably  flattered  her  inward 
eye.  The  Hunsdens  wei*e  of  an  old  stem  ;  and  scornful  as 
Yorke  (such  was  my  late  interlocutor's  name)  professed  to 
be  of  the  advantages  of  birth,  in  his  secret  heart  he  well 
knew  and  fully  appreciated  the  distinction  his  ancient,  if  not 
high  lineage  conferred  on  him  in  a  mushroom -place  like 

X ,   concerning  whose   inhabitants   it  was  pi-overbially 

said,  that  not  one  in  a  thousand  knew  his  own  grandfather. 
Moreover,  the  Hunsdens,  once  rich,  were  still  independent ; 
and  report  affirmed  that  Yorke  bade  fair,  by  his  success  in 
business,  to  restore  to  pristine  prosperity  the  partially 
decayed  fortunes  of  his  house.  These  circumstances  con- 
sidered, Mrs.  Lupton's  broad  face  might  well  wear  a  smile 
of  complacency  as  she  contemplated  the  heir  of  Hunsden 
Wood  occupied  in  paying  assiduous  court  to  her  darling 
Sarah  Martha.  I,  however,  whose  observations  being  less 
anxious,  were  likely  to  be  more  accurate,  soon  saw  that  the 
grounds  for  maternal  self-congratulation  were  slight  indeed  ; 
the  gentleman  appeared  to  me  much  more  desirous  of  making, 
than  susceptible  of  receiving,  an  impression.  I  know  not 
what  it  was  in  Mr.  Hunsden  that,  as  I  watched  him  (I  had 
nothing  better  to  do),  suggested  to  me,  every  now  and  then, 
the  idea  of  a  foreigner.  In  form  and  featui'es  he  might  be 
pronounced  English,  though  even  there  one  caught  a  dash 
of  something  Gallic  ;  but  he  had  no  English  shyness :  he 
had  learnt  somewhere,  somehow,  the  art  of  setting  himself 
quite  at  his  ease,  and  of  allowing  no  insular  timidity  to 
intervene  as  a  barrier  between  him  and  his  convenience  or 
pleasure.  Refinement  he  did  not  affect,  yet  vulgar  he  could 
not  be  called  ;  he  was  not  odd — no  quiz — yet  he  resembled 
no  one  else  I  had  ever  seen  before  ;  his  general  bearing 
intimated  complete,  sovereign  satisfaction  with  himself;  yet, 


THE   PEOFESSOR  29 

at  times,  an  indescribable  shade  passed  like  an  eclipse  over  his 
countenance,  and  seemed  to  me  like  the  sign  of  a  sudden 
and  strong  inward  doubt  of  himself,  his  words  and  actions — 
an  energetic  discontent  at  his  life  or  his  social  position,  his 
future  prospects  or  his  mental  attainments— I  know  not 
which  ;  perhaps  after  all  it  might  only  be  a  bilious  caprice. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

No  man  likes  to  acknowledge  that  he  has  made  a  mistake  in 
the  choice  of  his  profession,  and  every  man,  worthy  of  the 
name,  will  row  long  against  wind  and  tide  before  he  allows 
himself  to  cry  out,  '  I  am  baffled  ! '  and  submits  to  be  floated 
passively  back  to  land.  Prom  the  first  week  of  my  residence 

in  X •  I  felt  my  occupation  irksome.     The  thing  itself — 

the  work  of  copying  and  translating  business-letters — was  a 
di-y  and  tedious  task  enough,  but  had  that  been  all,  I  should 
long  have  borne  with  the  nuisance ;  I  am  not  of  an  impatient 
nature,  and  influenced  by  the  double  desire  of  getting  my 
living  and  justifying  to  myself  and  others  the  resolution  I 
had  taken  to  become  a  tradesman,  I  should  have  endured  in 
silence  the  rust  and  cramp  of  my  best  faculties  ;  I  should 
not  have  whispered  even  inwardly,  that  I  longed  for  liberty  ; 
I  should  have  pent  in  every  sigh  by  which  my  heart  might 
have  ventured  to  intimate  its  distress  under  the  closeness, 
smoke,  monotony  and  joyless  tumult  of  Bigben  Close,  and 
its  panting  desire  for  freer  and  fresher  scenes  ;  I  should  have 
set  up  the  image  of  Duty,  the  fetish  of  Perseverance,  in  my 
small  bedroom  at  Mrs.  King's  lodgings,  and  they  too  should 
have  been  my  household  gods,  from  which  my  darling,  my 
cherished-in-secret,  Imagination,  the  tender  and  the  mighty, 
should  never,  either  by  softness  or  strength,  have  severed 
me.  But  this  was  not  all ;  the  antipathy  which  had  sprung 
up  between  myself  and  my  employer  striking  deeper  roo'u 
and  spreading  denser  shade  daily,  excluded  me  from  every 
glimpse  of  the  sunshine  of  life  ;  and  I  began  to  feel  like  a 
plant  growing  in  humid  darkness  out  of  the  slimy  walls  of 
a  well. 


THE  PROFESSOR  31 

Antipathy  is  the  only  word  which  can  express  the  feeling 
Edward  Crimsworth  had  for  me — a  feeling,  in  a  great 
measure,  involuntary,  and  which  was  liable  to  be  excited  by 
every  the  most  trifling  movement,  look,  or  word  of  mine. 
My  southern  accent  annoyed  him  ;  the  degree  of  education 
evinced  in  my  language  irritated  him  ;  my  punctuality, 
industry,  and  accuracy,  fixed  his  dislike,  and  gave  it  the  high 
flavour  and  poignant  relish  of  envy ;  he  feared  that  I  too 
should  one  day  make  a  successful  tradesman.  Had  I  been 
in  anything  inferior  to  him,  he  would  not  have  hated  me  so 
thoroughly,  but  I  knew  all  that  he  knew,  and,  what  was 
worse,  he  suspected  that  I  kept  the  padlock  of  silence  on 
mental  wealth  in  which  he  was  no  sharer.  If  he  could  have 
once  placed  me  in  a  ridiculous  or  mortifying  position,  he 
would  have  forgiven  me  much,  but  I  was  guarded  by  three 
faculties — Caution,  Tact,  Observation ;  and  prowling  and 
prying  as  was  Edward's  malignity,  it  could  never  baffle  the 
lynx-eyes  of  these,  my  natural  sentinels.  Day  by  day  did 
his  malice  watch  my  tact,  hoping  it  would  sleep,  and 
prepared  to  steal  snake-like  on  its  slumber ;  but  tact,  if  it  be 
genuine,  never  sleeps. 

I  had  received  my  first  quarter's  wages,  and  was  return- 
ing to  my  lodgings,  possessed  heart  and  soul  with  the 
pleasant  feeling  that  the  master  who  had  paid  me  grudged 
every  penny  of  that  hard-earned  pittance — (I  had  long 
ceased  to  regard  Mr.  Crimsworth  as  my  brother — he  was  a 
hard,  grinding  master  ;  he  wished  to  be  an  inexorable 
tyrant :  that  was  all).  Thoughts,  not  varied  but  strong, 
occupied  my  mind ;  two  voices  spoke  within  me,  again  and 
again  they  uttered  the  same  monotonous  phrases.  One 
said  :  '  William,  your  life  is  intolerable.'  The  other :  '  What 
can  you  do  to  alter  it  ?  '  I  walked  fast,  for  it  was  a  cold, 
frosty  night  in  January ;  as  I  approached  my  lodgings,  I 
turned  from  a  general  view  of  my  affairs  to  the  particular 
speculation  as  to  whether  my  fire  would  be  out ;  looking 
towards  the  window  of  my  sitting-room,  I  saw  no  cheering 
red  gleam. 


32  THE  PKOFESSOB 

1  That  slut  of  a  servant  has  neglected  it  as  usual,'  said  I, 
'  and  I  shall  see  nothing  but  pale  ashes  if  I  go  in  ;  it  is  a 
fine  starlight  night — I  will  walk  a  little  farther.' 

It  was  a  fine  night,  and  the  streets  were  dry  and  even 

clean  for  X ;  there  was  a  crescent  curve  of  moonlight  to 

be  seen  by  the  parish  church  tower,  and  hundreds  of  stars 
shone  keenly  bright  in  all  quarters  of  the  sky. 

Unconsciously  I  steered  my  course  towards  the  country  ; 
I  had  got  into  Grove  Street,  and  began  to  feel  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  dim  trees  at  the  extremity,  round  a  suburban 
house,  when  a  person  leaning  over  the  iron  gate  of  one  of 
the  small  gardens  which  front  the  neat  dwelling-houses  in 
this  street,  addressed  me  as  I  was  hurrying  with  quick  stride 
past. 

'  What  the  deuce  is  the  hurry  ?  Just  so  must  Lot  have 
left  Sodom,  when  he  expected  fire  to  pour  down  upon  it,  out 
of  burning  brass  clouds.' 

I  stopped  short,  and  looked  towards  the  speaker.  I 
smelt  the  fragrance,  and  saw  the  red  spark  of  a  cigar ;  the 
dusk  outline  of  a  man,  too,  bent  towards  me  over  the  wicket. 

1  You  see  I  am  meditating  in  the  field  at  eventide,' 
continued  this  shade.  '  God  knows  it's  cool  work  !  especially 
as  instead  of  Rebecca  on  a  camel's  hump,  with  bracelets  on 
her  arms  and  a  ring  in  her  nose,  Fate  sends  me  only  a 
counting-house  clerk,  in  a  grey  tweed  wrapper.' 

The  voice  was  familiar  to  me — its  second  utterance 
enabled  me  to  seize  the  speaker's  identity. 

'  Mr.  Hunsden  !  good-evening.' 

'  Good-evening,  indeed  !  yes,  but  you  would  have  passed 
me  without  recognition  if  I  had  not  been  so  civil  as  to  speak 
first.' 

'  I  did  not  know  you." 

'  A  famous  excuse !  You  ought  to  have  known  me  ;  I 
knew  you,  though  you  were  going  ahead  like  a  steam-engine. 
Are  the  police  after  you  ?  ' 

'  It  wouldn't  be  worth  their  while ;  I'm  not  of  conse- 
quence enough  to  attract  them.' 


THE  PEOPESSOE  33 

'  Alas,  poor  shepherd  !  Alack  and  well-a-day  !  What  a 
theme  for  regret,  and  how  down  in  the  mouth  you  must  be, 
judging  from  the  sound  of  your  voice  !  But  since  you're  not 
running  from  the  police,  from  whom  are  you  running  ?  the 
devil  ? ' 

'  On  the  contrary,  I  am  going  post  to  him.' 

'  That  is  well — you're  just  in  luck :  this  is  Tuesday 
evening ;  there  are  scores  of  market  gigs  and  carts  returning 
to  Dinneford  to-night ;  and  he,  or  some  of  his,  have  a  seat 
in  all  regularly ;  so,  if  you'll  step  in  and  sit  half-an-hour  in 
my  bachelor's  parlour,  you  may  catch  him  as  he  passes 
without  much  trouble.  I  think  though  you'd  better  let  him 
alone  to-night,  he'll  have  so  many  customers  to  serve ; 

Tuesday  is  his  busy  day  in  X and  Dinneford  ;  come  in 

at  all  events.' 

He  swung  the  wicket  open  as  he  spoke. 

'  Do  you  really  wish  me  to  go  in  ?'  I  asked. 

'  As  you  please — I'm  alone ;  your  company  for  an  hour 
or  two  would  be  agreeable  to  me ;  but,  if  you  don't  choose  to 
favour  me  so  far,  I'll  not  press  the  point.  I  hate  to  bore 
any  one.' 

It  suited  me  to  accept  the  invitation  as  it  suited  Hunsden 
to  give  it.  I  passed  through  the  gate,  and  followed  him  to 
the  front  door,  which  he  opened  ;  thence  we  traversed  a 
passage,  and  entered  his  parlour ;  the  door  being  shut,  he 
pointed  me  to  an  arm-chair  by  the  hearth  ;  I  sat  down,  and 
glanced  round  me. 

It  was  a  comfortable  room,  at  once  snug  and  handsome  ; 
the  bright  grate  was  filled  with  a  genuine  -  — shire  fire,  red, 
clear,  and  generous,  no  penurious  South-of-England  embers 
heaped  in  the  corner  of  a  grate.  On  the  table  a  shaded 
lamp  diffused  around  a  soft,  pleasant,  and  equal  light ;  the 
furniture  was  almost  luxurious  for  a  young  bachelor,  compris- 
ing a  couch  and  two  very  easy  chairs ;  bookshelves  filled  the 
recesses  on  each  side  of  the  mantelpiece ;  they  were  well 
furnished,  and  arranged  with  perfect  order.  The  neatness 
of  the  room  suited  my  taste ;  I  hate  irregular  and  slovenly 


34  THE   PROFESSOR 

habits.  From  what  I  saw  I  concluded  that  Hunsden's  ideas 
on  that  point  corresponded  with  my  own.  While  he  removed 
from  the  centre  table  to  the  sideboard  a  few  pamphlets  and 
periodicals,  I  ran  my  eye  along  the  shelves  of  the  bookcase 
nearest  me.  French  and  German  works  predominated,  the 
old  French  dramatists,  sundry  modern  authors,  Thiers, 
Villemain,  Paul  de  Kock,  George  Sand,  Eugene  Sue;  in 
German — Goethe,  Schiller,  Zschokke,  Jean  Paul  Eichter; 
in  English  there  were  works  on  Political  Economy.  I 
examined  no  further,  for  Mr.  Hunsden  himself  recalled  my 
attention. 

'  You  shall  have  something,'  said  he,  '  for  you  ought  to 
feel  disposed  for  refreshment  after  walking  nobody  knows 
how  far  on  such  a  Canadian  night  as  this ;  but  it  shall  not 
be  brandy-and-water,  and  it  shall  not  be  a  bottle  of  port,  nor 
ditto  of  sherry.  I  keep  no  such  poison.  I  have  Rheinwein 
for  my  own  drinking,  and  you  may  choose  between  that  and 
coffee.' 

Here  again  Hunsden  suited  me :  if  there  was  one 
generally  received  practice  I  abhorred  more  than  another, 
it  was  the  habitual  imbibing  of  spirits  and  strong  wines.  I 
had,  however,  no  fancy  for  his  acid  German  nectar,  but  I  liked 
coffee,  so  I  responded — '  Give  me  some  coffee,  Mr.  Hunsden.' 

I  perceived  my  answer  pleased  him ;  he  had  doubtless 
expected  to  see  a  chilling  effect  produced  by  his  steady 
announcement  that  he  would  give  me  neither  wine  nor 
spirits  ;  he  just  shot  one  searching  glance  at  my  face  to 
ascertain  whether  my  cordiality  was  genuine  or  a  mere  feint 
of  politeness.  I  smiled,  because  I  quite  understood  him  ; 
arid,  while  I  honoured  his  conscientious  firmness,  I  was 
amused  at  his  mistrust ;  he  seemed  satisfied,  rang  the  bell, 
and  ordered  coffee,  which  was  presently  brought ;  for  himself, 
a  bunch  of  grapes  and  half  a  pint  of  something  sour  sufficed. 
My  coffee  was  excellent ;  I  told  him  so,  and  expressed  the 
shuddering  pity  with  which  his  anchorite  fare  inspired  me. 
He  did  not  answer,  and  I  scarcely  think  heard  my  remark. 
At  that  moment  one  of  those  momentary  eclipses  I  before 


THE  PEOFESSOE  35 

alluded  to  had  come  over  his  face,  extinguishing  his  smile, 
and  replacing,  by  an  abstracted  and  alienated  look,  the 
customarily  shrewd,  bantering  glance  of  his  eye.  I  em- 
ployed the  interval  of  silence  in  a  rapid  scrutiny  of  his 
physiognomy.  I  had  never  observed  him  closely  before  ; 
and  as  my  sight  is  very  short,  I  had  gathered  only  a  vague, 
general  idea  of  his  appearance;  I  was  surprised  now,  on 
examination,  to  perceive  how  small,  and  even  feminine,  were 
his  lineaments  ;  his  tall  figure,  long  and  dark  locks,  his 
voice  and  general  bearing,  had  impressed  me  with  the  notion 
of  something  powerful  and  massive ;  not  at  all : — my  own 
features  were  cast  in  a  harsher  and  squarer  mould  than  his. 
I  discerned  that  there  would  be  contrasts  between  his 
inward  and  outward  man  ;  contentions,  too ;  for  I  suspected 
his  soul  had  more  of  will  and  ambition  than  his  body  had 
of  fibre  and  muscle.  Perhaps,  in  these  incompatibilities  of 
the  '  physique '  with  the  '  morale,'  lay  the  secret  of  that 
fitful  gloom ;  he  would  but  could  not,  and  the  athletic  mind 
scowled  scorn  on  its  more  fragile  companion.  As  to  his 
good  looks,  I  should  have  liked  to  have  a  woman's  opinion 
on  that  subject ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  his  face  might  produce 
the  same  effect  on  a  lady  that  a  very  piquant  and  interesting, 
though  scarcely  pretty,  female  face  would  on  a  man.  I  have 
mentioned  his  dark  locks — they  were  brushed  sideways  above 
a  white  and  sufficiently  expansive  forehead ;  his  cheek  had  a 
rather  hectic  freshness  ;  his  features  might  have  done  well 
on  canvas,  but  indifferently  in  marble :  they  were  plastic  ; 
character  had  set  a  stamp  upon  each ;  expression  re-cast 
them  at  her  pleasure,  and  strange  metamorphoses  she 
wrought,  giving  him  now  the  mien  of  a  morose  bull,  and 
anon  that  of  an  arch  and  mischievous  girl ;  more  frequently, 
the  two  semblances  were  blent,  and  a  queer,  composite 
countenance  they  made. 

Starting  from  his  silent  fit,  he  began  : — '  William  !  what 
a  fool  you  are  to  live  in  those  dismal  lodgings  of  Mrs.  King's, 
when  you  might  take  rooms  here  in  Grove  Street,  and  have 
a  garden  like  me  ! ' 


36  THE   PEOFESSOB 

'  I  should  be  too  far  from  the  mill.' 

'What  of  that?  It  would  do  you  good  to  walk  there 
and  back  two  or  three  times  a  day  ;  besides,  are  you  such  a 
fossil  that  you  never  wish  to  see  a  flower  or  a  green  leaf  ?  ' 

1 1  am  no  fossil.' 

'  What  are  you  then  ?  You  sit  at  that  desk  in  Crims- 
worth's  counting-house  day  by  day  and  week  by  week, 
scraping  with  a  pen  on  paper,  just  like  an  automaton  ;  you 
never  get  up  ;  you  never  say  you  are  tired  ;  you  never  ask 
for  a  holiday ;  you  never  take  change  or  relaxation  ;  you 
give  way  to  no  excess  of  an  evening ;  you  neither  keep  wild 
company,  nor  indulge  in  strong  drink." 

'  Do  you,  Mr.  Hunsden  ?  ' 

'  Don't  think  to  pose  me  with  short  questions  ;  your  case 
and  mine  are  diametrically  different,  and  it  is  nonsense 
attempting  to  draw  a  parallel.  I  say,  that  when  a  man 
endures  patiently  what  ought  to  be  unendurable,  he  is  a 
fossil.' 

'  Whence  do  you  acquire  the  knowledge  of  my 
patience  ? ' 

'  Why,  man,  do  you  suppose  you  are  a  mystery  ?  The 
other  night  you  seemed  surprised  at  my  knowing  to  what 
family  you  belonged  ;  now  you  find  subject  for  wonderment 
in  my  calling  you  patient.  Whftt  do  you  think  I  do  with  my 
eyes  and  ears?  I've  been  in  your  counting-house  more  than 
once  when  Crimsworth  has  treated  you  like  a  dog ;  called 
for  a  book,  for  instance,  and  when  you  gave  him  the  wrong 
one,  or  what  he  chose  to  consider  the  wrong  one,  flung  it 
back  almost  in  your  face  ;  desired  you  to  shut  or  open  the 
door  as  if  you  had  been  his  flunkey  ;  to  say  nothing  of  your 
position  at  the  party  about  a  month  ago,  where  you  had 
neither  place  nor  partnei*,  but  hovered  about  like  a  poor, 
shabby  hanger-on  ;  and  how  patient  you  were  under  each 
and  all  of  these  circumstances  ! ' 

'  Well,  Mr.  Hunsden,  what  then  ?  ' 

'  I  can  hardly  tell  you  what  then  ;  the  conclusion  to  be 
drawn  as  to  your  character  depends  upon  the  nature  of  the 


THE  PKOFESSOR  37 

motives  which  guide  your  conduct ;  if  you  are  patient 
because  you  expect  to  make  something  eventually  out  of 
Crimsworth,  notwithstanding  his  tyranny,  or  perhaps  by 
means  of  it,  you  are  what  the  world  calls  an  interested  and 
mercenary,  but  maybe  a  very  wise  fellow ;  if  you  are  patient 
because  you  think  it  a  duty  to  meet  insult  with  submission, 
you  are  an  essential  sap,  and  in  no  shape  the  man  for  my 
money  ;  if  you  are  patient  because  your  nature  is  phlegmatic, 
flat,  inexci table,  and  that  you  cannot  get  up  to  the  pitch  of 
resistance,  why,  God  made  you  to  be  crushed ;  and  lie  down 
by  all  means,  and  lie  flat,  and  let  Juggernaut  ride  well  over 
you.' 

Mr.  Hunsden's  eloquence  was  not,  it  will  be  perceived, 
of  the  smooth  and  oily  order.  As  he  spoke,  he  pleased  me 
ill.  I  seem  to  recognise  in  him  one  of  those  characters  who, 
sensitive  enough  themselves,  are  selfishly  relentless  towards 
the  sensitiveness  of  others.  Moreover,  though  he  was 
neither  like  Crimsworth  nor  Lord  Tynedale,  yet  he  was 
acrid,  and,  I  suspected,  overbearing  in  his  way  :  there  was  a 
tone  of  despotism  in  the  urgency  of  the  very  reproaches  by 
which  he  aimed  at  goading  the  oppressed  into  rebellion 
against  the  oppressor.  Looking  at  him  still  more  fixedly 
than  I  had  yet  done,  I  saw  written  in  his  eye  and  mien  a 
resolution  to  arrogate  to  himself  a  freedom  so  unlimited,  that 
it  might  often  trench  on  the  just  liberty  of  his  neighbours. 
I  rapidly  ran  over  these  thoughts,  and  then  I  laughed  a  low 
and  involuntary  laugh,  moved  thereto  by  a  slight  inward 
revelation  of  the  inconsistency  of  man.  It  was  as  I  thought : 
Hunsden  had  expected  me  to  take  with  calm  his  incorrect 
and  offensive  surmises,  his  bitter  and  haughty  taunts ;  and 
himself  was  chafed  by  a  laugh,  scarce  louder  than  a 
whisper. 

His  brow  darkened,  his  thin  nostril  dilated  a  little. 

'  Yes,'  he  began,  '  I  told  you  that  you  were  an  aristocrat, 
and  who  but  an  aristocrat  would  laugh  such  a  laugh  as  that, 
and  look  such  a  look  ?  A  laugh  frigidly  jeering ;  a  look 
lazily  mutinous  ;  gentlemanlike  irony,  patrician  resentment. 


38  THE  PEOFESSOE 

What  a  nobleman  you  would  have  made,  William  Crims- 
worth  !  You  are  cut  out  for  one  ;  pity  Fortune  has  baulked 
Nature  !  Look  at  the  features,  figure,  even  to  the  hands — 
distinction  all  over — ugly  distinction !  Now,  if  you'd  only 
an  estate  and  a  mansion,  and  a  park,  and  a  title,  how  you 
could  play  the  exclusive,  maintain  the  rights  of  your  class, 
train  your  tenantry  in  habits  of  respect  to  the  peerage, 
oppose  at  every  step  the  advancing  power  of  the  people, 
support  your  rotten  order,  and  be  ready  for  its  sake  to  wade 
knee-deep  in  churls'  blood ;  as  it  is,  you've  no  power ;  you 
can  do  nothing  ;  you're  wrecked  and  stranded  on  the  shores 
of  commerce ;  forced  into  collision  with  practical  men,  with 
whom  you  cannot  cope,  for  you'll  never  be  a  tradesman.' 

The  first  part  of  Hunsden's  speech  moved  me  not  at  all, 
or,  if  it  did,  it  was  only  to  wonder  at  the  perversion  into 
which  prejudice  had  twisted  his  judgment  of  my  character ; 
the  concluding  sentence,  however,  not  only  moved,  but  shook 
me  ;  the  blow  it  gave  was  a  severe  one,  because  Truth 
wielded  the  weapon.  If  I  smiled  now,  it  was  only  in  disdain 
of  myself. 

Hunsden  saw  his  advantage  ;  he  followed  it  up. 

'  You'll  make  nothing  by  trade,'  continued  he  ;  '  nothing 
more  than  the  crust  of  dry  bread  and  the  draught  of  fair 
water  on  which  you  now  live ;  your  only  chance  of  getting  a 
competency  lies  in  marrying  a  rich  widow,  or  running  away 
with  an  heiress.' 

'  I  leave  such  shifts  to  be  put  in  practice  by  those  who 
devise  them,'  said  I,  rising. 

'  And  even  that  is  hopeless,'  he  went  on  coolly.  '  What 
widow  would  have  you  ?  Much  less,  what  heiress  ?  You're 
not  bold  and  venturesome  enough  for  the  one,  nor  handsome 
and  fascinating  enough  for  the  other.  You  think  perhaps 
you  look  intelligent  and  polished ;  carry  your  intellect  and 
refinement  to  market,  and  tell  me  in  a  private  note  what 
price  is  bid  for  them.' 

Mr.  Hunsden  had  taken  his  tone  for  the  night  ;  the  string 
he  struck  was  out  of  tune,  he  would  finger  no  other.  Averse 


THE   PROFESSOR  39 

to  discord,  of  which  I  had  enough  every  day  and  all  day 
long,  I  concluded,  at  last,  that  silence  and  solitude  were 
preferable  to  jarring  converse  ;  I  bade  him  good-night. 

'  What !  Are  you  going,  lad  ?  Well,  good-night :  you'll 
find  the  door.'  And  he  sat  still  in  front  of  the  fire,  while  I 
left  the  room  and  the  house.  I  had  got  a  good  way  on  my 
return  to  my  lodgings  before  I  found  out  that  I  was  walking 
very  fast,  and  breathing  very  hard,  and  that  my  nails  were 
almost  stuck  into  the  palms  of  my  clenched  hands,  and 
that  my  teeth  were  set  fast ;  on  making  this  discovery,  I 
relaxed  both  my  pace,  fists,  and  jaws,  but  I  could  not  so  soon 
cause  the  regrets  rushing  rapidly  through  my  mind  to 
slacken  their  tide.  Why  did  I  make  myself  a  tradesman  ? 
Why  did  I  enter  Hunsden's  house  this  evening  ?  Why,  at 
dawn  to-morrow,  must  I  repair  to  Crimsworth's  mill  ?  All 
that  night  did  I  ask  myself  these  questions,  and  all  that 
night  fiercely  demanded  of  my  soul  an  answer.  I  got  no 
sleep ;  my  head  burned,  my  feet  froze ;  at  last  the  factory 
bells  rang,  and  I  sprang  from  my  bed  with  other  slaves 


CHAPTEB  V 

THERE  is  a  climax  to  everything,  to  every  state  of  feeling  as 
well  as  to  every  position  in  life.  I  turned  this  truism  over 
in  my  mind  as,  in  the  frosty  dawn  of  a  January  morning,  I 
hurried  down  the  steep  and  now  icy  street  which  descended 
from  Mrs.  King's  to  the  Close.  The  factory  workpeople  had 
preceded  me  by  nearly  an  hour,  and  the  mill  was  all  lighted 
up  and  in  full  operation  when  I  reached  it.  I  repaired  to  my 
post  in  the  counting-house  as  usual ;  the  fire  there,  but  just 
lit,  as  yet  only  smoked ;  Steighton  was  not  yet  arrived.  I 
shut  the  door  and  sat  down  at  the  desk ;  my  hands,  recently 
washed  in  half-frozen  water,  were  still  numb  ;  I  could  not 
write  till  they  had  regained  vitality,  so  I  went  on  thinking, 
and  still  the  theme  of  my  thoughts  was  the  '  climax.'  Self- 
dissatisfaction  troubled  exceedingly  the  current  of  my 
meditations. 

'  Come,  William  Crimsworth,'  said  my  conscience,  or 
whatever  it  is  that  within  ourselves  takes  ourselves  to  task 
— '  Come,  get  a  clear  notion  of  what  you  would  have, 
or  what  you  would  not  have.  You  talk  of  a  climax ; 
pray  has  your  endurance  reached  its  climax  ?  It  is  not 
four  months  old.  What  a  fine  resolute  fellow  you 
imagined  yourself  to  be  when  you  told  Tynedale  you  would 
tread  in  your  father's  steps,  and  a  pretty  treading  you  are 

likely  to  make  of  it !    How  well  you  like  X !    Just  at  this 

moment  how  redolent  of  pleasant  associations  are  its  streets,  its 
shops,  its  warehouses,  its  factories  !  How  the  prospect  of  this 
day  cheers  you  !  Letter-copying  till  noon,  solitary  dinner  a* 
your  lodgings,  letter-copying  till  evening,  solitude,  for  you 
neither  find  pleasure  in  Brown's,  nor  Smith's,  nor  Nicholls', 


THE   PEOFESSOB  41 

nor  Eccles'  company ;  and  as  to  Hunsden,  you  fancied  there 
was  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  his  society — he  !  he  !  how 
did  you  like  the  taste  you  had  of  him  last  night  ?  was  it 
sweet  ?  Yet  he  is  a  talented,  an  original-minded  man,  and 
even  he  does  not  like  you  ;  your  self-respect  defies  you  to 
like  him  ;  he  has  always  seen  you  to  disadvantage  ;  he  always 
will  see  you  to  disadvantage ;  your  positions  are  unequal, 
and  were  they  on  the  same  level  your  minds  could  not 
assimilate ;  never  hope,  then,  to  gather  the  honey  of  friend- 
ship out  of  that  thorn-guarded  plant.  Hollo,  Crimsworth ! 
where  are  your  thoughts  tending  ?  You  leave  the  recollec- 
tion of  Hunsden  as  a  bee  would  a  rock,  as  a  bird  a  desert ; 
and  your  aspirations  spread  eager  wings  towards  a  land  of 
visions  where,  now  in  advancing  daylight — in  X day- 
light— you  dare  to  dream  of  congeniality,  repose,  union. 
Those  three  you  will  never  meet  in  this  world;  they  are 
angels.  The  souls  of  just  men  made  perfect  may  encounter 
them  in  heaven,  but  your  soul  will  never  be  made  perfect. 
Eight  o'clock  strikes  !  your  hands  are  thawed,  get  to  work  ! ' 

'  Work  ?  why  should  I  work  ?  '  said  I  sullenly  :  '  I  cannot 
please  though  I  toil  like  a  slave.'  '  Work,  work  ! '  reiterated 
the  inward  voice.  'I  may  work,  it  will  do  no  good,'  I 
growled  ;  but  nevertheless  I  drew  out  a  packet  of  letters  and 
commenced  my  task— task  thankless  and  bitter  as  that  of  the 
Israelite  crawling  over  the  sun-baked  fields  of  Egypt  in 
search  of  straw  and  stubble  wherewith  to  accomplish  his 
tale  of  bricks. 

About  ten  o'clock  I  heard  Mr.  Crimsworth's  gig  turn 
into  the  yard,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  he  entered  the 
counting-house.  It  was  his  custom  to  glance  his  eye  at 
Steighton  and  myself,  to  hang  up  his  mackintosh,  stand  a 
minute  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  then  walk  out.  To- 
day he  did  not  deviate  from  his  usual  habits ;  the  only 
difference  was  that  when  he  looked  at  me,  his  brow,  instead 
of  being  merely  hard,  was  surly  ;  his  eye,  instead  of  being 
cold,  was  fierce.  He  studied  me  a  minute  or  two  longer 
than  usual,  but  went  out  in  silence. 


42  THE  PROFESSOR 

Twelve  o'clock  arrived  ;  the  bell  rang  for  a  suspension  of 
labour  ;  the  workpeople  went  off  to  their  dinners  ;  Steighton, 
too,  departed,  desiring  me  to  lock  the  counting-house 
door,  and  take  the  key  with  me.  I  was  tying  up  a  bundle 
of  papers,  and  putting  them  in  their  place,  preparatory  to 
closing  my  desk,  when  Crimsworth  reappeared  at  the  door, 
and  entering  closed  it  behind  him. 

'  You'll  stay  here  a  minute,'  said  he,  in  a  deep,  brutal 
voice,  while  his  nostrils  distended  and  his  eye  shot  a  spark 
of  sinister  fire. 

Alone  with  Edward  I  remembered  our  relationship,  and 
remembering  that  forgot  the  difference  of  position ;  I  put 
away  deference  and  careful  forms  of  speech  ;  I  answered 
with  simple  brevity. 

'  It  is  time  to  go  home,'  I  said,  turning  the  key  in  my 
desk. 

'  You'll  stay  here  ! '  he  reiterated.  '  And  take  your  hand 
off  that  key  !  leave  it  in  the  lock  !  ' 

'  Why  ?  '  asked  I.  '  What  cause  is  there  for  changing  my 
usual  plans  ? ' 

'  Do  as  I  order,'  was  the  answer,  '  and  no  questions  ! 
You  are  my  servant,  obey  me !  What  have  you  been 

about ?  '  He  was  going  on  in  the  same  breath,  when  an 

abrupt  pause  announced  that  rage  had  for  the  moment  got 
the  better  of  articulation. 

'You  may  look,  if  you  wish  to  know,'  I  replied.  '  There 
is  the  open  desk,  there  are  the  papers. 

'  Confound  your  insolence !  What  have  you  been 
about  ?  ' 

'  Your  work,  and  have  done  it  well.' 

'Hypocrite  and  twaddler.  Smooth-faced,  snivelling 
greasehorn  ! '  (this  last  term  is,  I  believe,  purely  —  — shire, 
and  alludes  to  the  horn  of  black,  rancid  whale-oil,  usually  to 
be  seen  suspended  to  cartwheels,  and  employed  for  greasing 
the  same). 

'Come,  Edward  Crimsworth,  enough  of  this.  Jt  is  time 
you  and  I  wound  up  accounts.  I  have  now  given  your 


THE   PROFESSOK  43 

service  three  months'  trial,  and  I  find  it  the  most  nauseous 
slavery  under  the  sun.  Seek  another  clerk.  I  stay  no 
longer.' 

'  What !  do  you  dare  to  give  me  notice  ?  Stop  at  least 
for  your  wages.'  He  took  down  the  heavy  gig  whip  hanging 
beside  his  mackintosh. 

I  permitted  myself  to  laugh  with  a  degree  of  scorn  I  took 
no  pains  to  temper  or  hide.  His  fury  boiled  up,  and  when 
he  had  sworn  half-a-dozen  vulgar,  impious  oaths,  without, 
however,  venturing  to  lift  the  whip,  he  continued  : — 'I've 
found  you  out  and  know  you  thoroughly,  you  mean,  whining 
lickspittle !  What  have  you  been  saying  all  over  X — 
about  me  ?  Answer  me  that ! ' 

'  You  ?  I  have  neither  inclination  nor  temptation  to  talk 
about  you.' 

'  You  lie !  It  is  your  practice  to  talk  about  me :  it  is 
your  constant  habit  to  make  public  complaint  of  the  treat- 
ment you  receive  at  my  hands.  You  have  gone  and  told  it 
far  and  near  that  I  give  you  low  wages  and  knock  you  about 
like  a  dog.  I  wisli  you  were  a  dog  !  I'd  set  to  this  minute, 
and  never  stir  from  the  spot  till  I'd  cut  every  strip  of  flesh 
from  your  bones  with  this  whip.' 

He  flourished  his  tool.  The  end  of  the  lash  just  touched 
my  forehead.  A  warm  excited  thrill  ran  through  my  veins, 
my  blood  seemed  to  give  a  bound,  and  then  raced  fast  and 
hot  along  its  channels.  I  got  up  nimbly,  came  round  to 
where  he  stood,  and  faced  him. 

'  Down  with  your  whip  !  '  said  I, '  and  explain  this  instant 
what  you  mean.' 

'  Sirrah  !  to  whom  are  you  speaking  ?  ' 

'  To  you.  There  is  no  one  else  present,  I  think.  You 
say  I  have  been  calumniating  you — complaining  of  your  low 
wages  and  bad  treatment.  Give  your  grounds  for  these 
assertions.' 

Crimsworth  had  no  dignity,  and  when  I  sternly  demanded 
an  explanation,  he  gave  one  in  a  loud,  scolding  voice. 

'  Grounds  !  you  shall  have  them  ;  and  turn  to  the  light, 


44  THE  PROFESSOR 

that  I  may  see  your  brazen  face  blush  black,  when  you  hear 
yourself  proved  to  be  a  liar  and  a  hypocrite.  At  a  public 
meeting  in  the  Town-hall  yesterday,  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  myself  insulted  by  the  speaker  opposed  to  me  in  the 
question  under  discussion,  by  allusions  to  my  private  affairs  ; 
by  cant  about  monsters  without  natural  affection,  family 
despots,  and  such  trash ;  and  when  I  rose  to  answer,  I  was 
met  by  a  shout  from  the  filthy  mob,  where  the  mention  of 
your  name  enabled  me  at  once  to  detect  the  quarter  in  which 
this  base  attack  had  originated.  When  I  looked  round,  I 
saw  that  treacherous  villain,  Hunsdeu,  acting  as  fugleman. 
I  detected  you  in  close  conversation  with  Hunsden  at  my 
house  a  month  ago,  and  I  know  that  you  were  at  Hunsden's 
rooms  last  night.  Deny  it  if  you  dare.' 

'  Oh,  I  shall  not  deny  it !  And  if  Hunsden  hounded  on 
the  people  to  hiss  you,  he  did  quite  right.  You  deserve 
popular  execration  ;  for  a  worse  man,  a  harder  master,  a 
more  brutal  brother  than  you  are,  has  seldom  existed.' 

'  Sirrah  !  sirrah  ! '  reiterated  Crimsworth  ;  and  to  complete 
his  apostrophe,  he  cracked  the  whip  straight  over  my  head. 

A  minute  sufficed  to  wrest  it  from  him,  break  it  in  two 
pieces,  and  throw  it  under  the  grate.  He  made  a  headlong 
rush  at  me,  which  I  evaded,  and  said — '  Touch  me,  and  I'll 
have  you  up  before  the  nearest  magistrate.' 

Men  like  Crimsworth,  if  firmly  and  calmly  resisted, 
always  abate  something  of  their  exorbitant  insolence  ;  he 
had  no  mind  to  be  brought  before  a  magistrate,  and  I 
suppose  he  saw  I  meant  what  I  said.  After  an  odd  and 
long  stare  at  me,  at  once  bull-like  and  amazed,  he  seemed 
to  bethink  himself  that,  after  all,  his  money  gave  him 
sufficient  superiority  over  a  beggar  like  me,  and  that  he  had 
in  his  hands  a  surer  and  more  dignified  mode  of  revenge 
than  the  somewhat  hazardous  one  of  personal  chastisement. 

'  Take  your  hat,"  said  he.  '  Take  what  belongs  to  you, 
and  go  out  at  that  door;  get  away  to  your  parish,  you 
pauper  :  beg,  steal,  starve,  get  transported,  do  what  you  like  ; 
but  at  your  peril  venture  again  into  my  sight !  If  ever  I  hear 


THE  PROCESSOR  45 

of  your  setting  foot  on  an  inch  of  ground  belonging  to  me, 
I'll  hire  a  man  to  cane  you.' 

'  It  is  not  likely  you'll  have  the  chance ;  once  off  your 
premises,  what  temptation  can  I  have  to  return  to  them? 
I  leave  a  prison,  I  leave  a  tyrant;  I  leave  what  is  worse 
than  the  worst  that  can  lie  before  me,  so  no  fear  of  my 
coming  back.' 

'  Go,  or  I'll  make  you  ! '  exclaimed  Crimsworth. 

I  walked  deliberately  to  my  desk,  took  out  such  of  its 
contents  as  were  my  own  property,  put  them  in  my  pocket, 
locked  the  desk,  and  placed  the  key  on  the  top. 

'  What  are  you  abstracting  from  that  desk  ?  '  demanded 
the  millowner.  '  Leave  all  behind  in  its  place,  or  I'll  send 
for  a  policeman  to  search  you.' 

'  Look  sharp  about  it,  then,'  said  I,  and  I  took  down  my 
hat,  drew  on  my  gloves,  and  walked  leisurely  out  of  the 
counting-house — walked  out  of  it  to  enter  it  no  more. 

I  recollect  that  when  the  mill-bell  rang  the  dinner-hour, 
before  Mr.  Crimsworth  entered,  and  the  scene  above  related 
took  place,  I  had  had  rather  a  sharp  appetite,  and  had  been 
waiting  somewhat  impatiently  to  hear  the  signal  of  feeding 
time.  I  forgot  it  now,  however  ;  the  images  of  potatoes  and 
roast-mutton  were  effaced  from  my  mind  by  the  stir  and 
tumult  which  the  transaction  of  the  last  half-hour  had  there 
excited.  I  only  thought  of  walking,  that  the  action  of  my 
muscles  might  harmonize  with  the  action  of  my  nerves  ; 
and  walk  I  did,  fast  and  far.  How  could  I  do  otherwise  ? 
A  load  was  lifted  off  my  heart ;  I  felt  light  and  liberated.  I 
had  got  away  from  Bigben  Close  without  a  breach  of  resolu- 
tion ;  without  injury  to  my  self-respect.  I  had  not  forced 
circumstances ;  circumstances  had  freed  me.  Life  was 
again  open  to  me  ;  no  longer  was  its  horizon  limited  by  the 
high  black  wall  surrounding  Crimsworth's  mill.  Two  hours 
had  elapsed  before  my  sensations  had  so  far  subsided  as  to 
leave  me  calm  enough  to  remark  for  what  wider  and  clearer 
boundaries  I  had  exchanged  that  sooty  girdle.  When  I  did 
look  up,  lo  !  straight  before  me  lay  Grovetown,  a  village  of 


46  THE   PEOFESSOE 

villas  about  five  miles  out  of  X .     The  short  winter  day, 

as  I  perceived  from  the  far-declined  sun,  was  already 
approaching  its  close  ;  a  chill  frost-mist  was  rising  from  the 
river  on  which  X —  -  stands,  and  along  whose  banks  the 
road  I  had  taken  lay ;  it  dimmed  the  earth,  but  did  not 
obscure  the  clear  icy  blue  of  the  January  sky.  There  was  a 
great  stillness  near  and  far ;  the  time  of  the  day  favoured 
tranquillity,  as  the  people  were  all  employed  within-doors, 
the  hour  of  evening  release  from  the  factories  not  being  yet 
arrived ;  a  sound  of  full-flowing  water  alone  pervaded  the 
air,  for  the  river  was  deep  and  abundant,  swelled  by  the 
melting  of  a  late  snow.  I  stood  awhile,  leaning  over  a  wall ; 
and  looking  down  at  the  current :  I  watched  the  rapid  rush 
of  its  waves.  I  desired  memory  to  take  a  clear  and  per- 
manent impression  of  the  scene,  and  treasure  it  for  future 
years.  Grovetown  church  clock  struck  four  ;  looking  up,  I 
beheld  the  last  of  that  day's  sun,  glinting  red  through  the 
leafless  boughs  of  some  very  old  oak  trees  surrounding  the 
church— its  light  coloured  and  characterized  the  picture  as  I 
wished.  I  paused  yet  a  moment,  till  the  sweet,  slow  sound 
of  the  bell  had  quite  died  out  of  the  air ;  then  ear,  eye  and 
feeling  satisfied,  I  quitted  the  wall,  and  once  more  turned 
my  face  towards  X . 


CHAPTEE  VI 

I  RE-ENTERED  the  town  a  hungry  man ;  the  dinner  I  had 
forgotten  recurred  seductively  to  my  recollection  ;  and  it  was 
with  a  quick  step  and  sharp  appetite  I  ascended  the  narrow 
street  leading  to  my  lodgings.  It  was  dark  when  I  opened 
the  front  door  and  walked  into  the  house.  I  wondered  how 
my  fire  would  be ;  the  night  was  cold,  and  I  shuddered  at 
the  prospect  of  a  grate  full  of  sparkless  cinders.  To  my 
joyful  surprise,  I  found,  on  entering  my  sitting-room,  a  good 
fire  and  a  clean  hearth.  I  had  hardly  noticed  this  phenome- 
non, when  I  became  aware  of  another  subject  for  wonder- 
ment ;  the  chair  I  usually  occupied  near  the  hearth  was 
already  filled ;  a  person  sat  there  with  his  arms  folded  on 
his  chest,  and  his  legs  stretched  out  on  the  rug.  Short- 
sighted as  I  am,  doubtful  as  was  the  gleam  of  the  firelight, 
a  moment's  examination  enabled  me  to  recognize  in  this 
person  my  acquaintance,  Mr.  Hunsden.  I  could  not  of 
course  be  much  pleased  to  see  him,  considering  the  manner 
in  which  I  had  parted  from  him  the  night  before,  and  as  I 
walked  to  the  hearth,  stirred  the  fire,  and  said  coolly, 
'  Good-evening,'  my  demeanour  evinced  as  little  cordiality  as 
I  felt ;  yet  I  wondered  in  my  own  mind  what  had  brought 
him  there  ;  and  I  wondered,  also,  what  motives  had  induced 
him  to  interfere  so  actively  between  me  and  Edward ;  it  was 
to  him,  it  appeared,  that  I  owed  my  welcome  dismissal ; 
still  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  ask  him  questions,  to  show 
any  eagerness  of  curiosity  ;  if  he  chose  to  explain,  he  might, 
but  the  explanation  should  be  a  perfectly  voluntary  one  on 
his  part ;  I  thought  he  was  entering  upon  it. 


48  THE   PROFESSOR 

'  You  owe  me  a  debt  of  gratitude,'  were  his  first 
words. 

'  Do  I  ? '  said  I ;  '  I  hope  it  is  not  a  large  one,  for  I  am 
much  too  poor  to  charge  myself  with  heavy  liabilities  of  any 
kind.' 

'  Then  declare  yourself  bankrupt  at  once,  for  this  liability 
is  a  ton  weight  at  least.  When  I  came  in  I  found  your  lire 
out,  and  I  had  it  lit  again,  and  made  that  sulky  drab  of  a 
servant  stay  and  blow  at  it  with  the  bellows  till  it  had  burnt 
up  properly  ;  now  say,  "  Thank  you  !  " 

'  Not  till  I  have  had  something  to  eat ;  I  can  thank 
nobody  while  I  am  so  famished.' 

I  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  tea  and  some  cold  meat. 

'  Cold  meat !  '  exclaimed  Hunsden,  as  the  servant  closed 
the  door,  '  what  a  glutton  you  are,  man  !  Meat  with  tea  ! 
you'll  die  of  eating  too  much.' 

'  No,  Mr.  Hunsden,  I  shall  not.'  I  felt  a  necessity  for 
contradicting  him  ;  I  was  irritated  with  hunger,  and  irritated 
at  seeing  him  there,  and  irritated  at  the  continued  roughness 
of  his  manner. 

'  It  is  over-eating  that  makes  you  so  ill-tempered/  said  he. 

'How  do  you  know?'  I  demanded.  '  It  is  like  you  to 
give  a  pragmatical  opinion  without  being  acquainted  with 
any  of  the  circumstances  of  the  case ;  I  have  had  no 
dinner.' 

What  I  said  was  petulant  and  snappish  enough,  and 
Hunsden  only  replied  by  looking  in  my  face  and  laughing. 

'  Poor  thing  ! '  he  whined,  after  a  pause.  '  It  has  bad 
no  dinner,  has  it?  What!  I  suppose  its  master  would 
not  let  it  come  home.  Did  Crimsworth  order  you  to  f:ist  by 
way  of  punishment,  William  ?  ' 

1  No,  Mr.  Hunsden.'  Fortunately,  at  this  sulky  juncture, 
tea  was  brought  in,  and  I  fell  to  upon  some  bread  and  butter 
and  cold  beef  directly.  Having  cleared  a  plateful,  I  became 
so  far  humanized  as  to  intimate  to  Mr.  Hunsden  '  that  he 
need  not  sit  there  staring,  but  might  come  to  the  table  and 
do  as  I  did,  if  lie  liked.' 


THE  PROFESSOR  49 

.  But  I  don't  like  in  the  least,'  said  he,  and  therewith  he 
summoned  the  servant  by  a  fresh  pull  of  the  bell -rope,  and 
intimated  a  desire  to  have  a  glass  of  toast-and-water.  '  And 
some  more  coal,'  he  added ;  '  Mr.  Crimsworth  shall  keep  a 
good  fire  while  I  stay.' 

His  orders  being  executed,  he  wheeled  his  chair  round 
to  the  table,  so  as  to  be  opposite  me.' 

'  Well,'  he  proceeded.  '  You  are  out  of  work,  I 
suppose  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  said  I ;  and  not  disposed  to  show  the  satisfaction 
I  felt  on  this  point,  I,  yielding  to  the  whim  of  the  moment, 
took  up  the  subject  as  though  I  considered  myself  aggrieved 
rather  than  benefited  by  what  had  been  done.  '  Yes — 
thanks  to  you,  I  am.  Crimsworth  turned  me  off  at  a 
minute's  notice,  owing  to  some  interference  of  yours  at  a 
public  meeting,  I  understand.' 

'  Ah !  what !  he  mentioned  that  ?  He  observed  me 
signalling  the  lads,  did  he  ?  What  had  he  to  say  about  his 
friend  Hunsden — anything  sweet  ?  ' 

'  He  called  you  a  treacherous  villain.' 

1  Oh,  he  hardly  knows  me  yet !  I'm  one  of  those  shy 
people  who  don't  come  out  all  at  once,  and  he  is  only  just 
beginning  to  make  my  acquaintance,  but  he'll  find  I've  some 
good  qualities — excellent  ones  !  The  Hunsdens  were  always 
unrivalled  at  tracking  a  rascal ;  a  downright  dishonourable 
villain  is  their  natural  prey — they  could  not  keep  off  him 
wherever  they  met  him ;  you  used  the  word  pragmatical 
just  now — that  word  is  the  property  of  our  family  ;  it  has 
been  applied  to  us  from  generation  to  generation  ;  we  have 
fine  noses  for  abuses  :  we  scent  a  scoundrel  a  mile  off;  we 
are  reformers  born,  radical  reformers  ;  and  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  live  in  the  same  town  with  Crimsworth,  to  come 
into  weekly  contact  with  him,  to  witness  some  of  his 
conduct  to  you  (for  whom  personally  I  care  nothing  ;  I  only 
consider  the  brutal  injustice  with  which  he  violated  your 
natural  claim  to  equality) — I  say  it  was  impossible  for  me 
to  be  thus  situated  and  not  feel  the  angel  or  the  demon  of 


50  THE  PROFESSOE 

my  race  at  work  within  me.  I  followed  my  instinct,  opposed 
a  tyrant,  and  broke  a  chain.' 

Now  this  speech  interested  me  much,  both  because  it 
brought  out  Hunsden's  character,  and  because  it  explained 
his  motives ;  it  interested  me  so  much  that  I  forgot  to  reply 
to  it,  and  sat  silent,  pondering  over  a  throng  of  ideas  it  had 
suggested. 

'  Are  you  grateful  to  me  ? '  he  asked,  presently. 

In  fact  I  was  grateful,  or  almost  so,  and  I  believe  I  half 
liked  him  at  the  moment,  notwithstanding  his  proviso  that 
what  he  had  done  was  not  out  of  regard  for  me.  But 
human  nature  is  perverse.  Impossible  to  answer  his  blunt 
question  in  the  affirmative,  so  I  disclaimed  all  tendency  to 
gratitude,  and  advised  him,  if  he  expected  any  reward  for 
his  championship,  to  look  for  it  in  a  better  world,  as  he  was 
not  likely  to  meet  with  it  here.  In  reply  he  termed  me  '  a 
dry-hearted  aristocratic  scamp,'  whereupon  I  again  charged 
him  with  having  taken  the  bread  out  of  my  mouth. 

'  Your  bread  was  dirty,  man  ! '  cried  Hunsden — '  dirty 
and  unwholesome  !  It  came  through  the  hands  of  a  tyrant, 
for  I  tell  you  Crimsworth  is  a  tyrant — a  tyrant  to  his  work- 
people, a  tyrant  to  his  clerks,  and  will  some  day  be  a  tyrant 
to  his  wife.' 

'  Nonsense !  bread  is  bread,  and  a  salary  is  a  salary. 
I've  lost  mine,  and  through  your  means.' 

'  There's  sense  in  what  you  say,  after  all,'  rejoined 
Hunsden.  '  I  must  say  I  am  rather  agreeably  surprised  to 
hear  you  make  so  practical  an  observation  as  that  last.  I 
had  imagined  now,  from  my  previous  observation  of  your 
character,  that  the  sentimental  delight  you  would  have  taken 
in  your  newly-regained  liberty  would,  for  a  while  at  least, 
have  effaced  all  ideas  of  forethought  and  prudence.  I  think 
better  of  you  for  looking  steadily  to  the  needful.' 

'  Looking  steadily  to  the  needful !  How  can  I  do  other- 
wise? I  must  live,  and  to  live  I  must  have  what  you  call 
"  the  needful,"  which  I  can  only  get  by  working.  I  repeat  it, 
you  have  taken  my  work  from  nn.-.' 


THE   PEOFESSOE  51 

'  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ? '  pursued  Hunsden,  coolly. 
1  You  have  influential  relations ;  I  suppose  they'll  soon 
provide  you  with  another  place  ? ' 

'Influential  relations?  Who?  I  should  like  to  know 
their  names.' 

'  The  Seacombes.' 
1  Stuff !     I  have  cut  them.' 
Hunsden  looked  at  me  incredulously. 
'  I  have,'  said  I,  '  and  that  definitively.' 
'  You  must  mean  they  have  cut  you,  William.' 
'As  you  please.     They  offered  me  their  patronage   on 
condition  of  my  entering  the  Church  ;  I  declined  both  the 
terms   and    the   recompense ;     I   withdrew   from    my   cold 
uncles,  and  preferred  throwing  myself  into  my  elder  brother's 
arms,  from  whose  affectionate  embrace  I  am  now  torn  by 
the  cruel  intermeddling  of  a  stranger — of  yourself,  in  short.' 
I  could  not  repress  a  half-smile  as  I  said  this ;  a  similar 
demi-manifestation  of  feeling  appeared  at  the  same  moment 
on  Hunsden's  lips. 

'  Oh,  I  see ! '  said  he,  looking  into  my  eyes,  and  it  was 
evident  he  did  see  right  down  into  my  heart.  Having  sat  a 
minute  or  two  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  diligently 
occupied  in  the  continued  perusal  of  my  countenance,  he  went 
on.  '  Seriously,  have  you  then  nothing  to  expect  from  the 
Seacombes  ? ' 

'  Yes,  rejection  and  repulsion.  Why  do  you  ask  me 
twice  ?  How  can  hands  stained  with  the  ink  of  a  counting- 
house,  soiled  with  the  grease  of  a  wool-warehouse,  ever 
again  be  permitted  to  come  into  contact  with  aristocratic 
palms  ? ' 

'  There  would  be  a  difficulty,  no  doubt ;  still  you  are  such 
a  complete  Seacombe  in  appearance,  feature,  language, 
almost  manner,  I  wonder  they  should  disown  you.' 

'  They  have  disowned  me  ;  so  talk  no  more  about  it.' 

'  Do  you  regret  it,  William  ?  ' 

'No.' 

•  Why  not,  lad  ?  ' 

3 


52  THE  PROFESSOR 

'  Because  they  are  not  people  with  whom  I  could  ever 
have  had  any  sympathy.' 

'  I  say  you  are  one  of  them.' 

'  That  merely  proves  that  you  know  nothing  at  all  about 
it ;  I  am  my  mother's  son,  but  not  my  uncle's  nephew.' 

'  Still,  one  of  your  uncles  is  a  lord,  though  rather  an 
obscure  and  not  a  very  wealthy  one,  and  the  other  a  right 
honourable  ;  you  should  consider  worldly  interest." 

'  Nonsense,  Mr.  Hunsden.  You  know  or  may  know 
that  even  had  I  desired  to  be  submissive  to  my  uncles,  I 
could  not  have  stooped  with  a  good  enough  grace  ever  to 
have  won  their  favour.  I  should  have  sacrificed  my  own 
comfort  and  not  have  gained  their  patronage  in  return.' 

1  Very  likely — so  you  calculated  your  wisest  plan  was  to 
follow  your  own  devices  at  once  ? ' 

1  Exactly.  I  must  follow  my  own  devices — I  must  till 
the  day  of  my  death  ;  because  I  can  neither  comprehend, 
adopt,  nor  work  out  those  of  other  people.' 

Hunsdeu  yawned.  '  Well,'  said  he,  '  in  all  this  I  see  but 
one  thing  clearly — that  is,  that  the  whole  affair  is  no  business 
of  mine.'  He  stretched  himself  and  again  yawned.  '  I 
wonder  what  time  it  is,'  he  went  on.  '  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment for  seven  o'clock.' 

'  Three-quarters  past  six  by  my  watch.' 

'  Well,  then,  I'll  go.'  He  got  up.  '  You'll  not  meddle 
with  trade  again  ? '  said  he,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the 
mantelpiece. 

'  No  ;  I  think  not.' 

'  You  would  be  a  fool  if  you  did.  Probably,  after  all, 
you'll  think  better  of  your  uncles'  proposal,  and  go  into  the 
Church.' 

'  A  singular  regeneration  must  take  place  in  my  whole 
inner  and  outer  man  before  I  do  that.  A  good  clergyman  is 
one  of  the  best  of  men.' 

'Indeed!  Do  you  think  so?'  interrupted  Hunsden, 
scottingly. 

'1    il,),    and    no  mistake.     But  I  have  not  the  peculiar 


THE  PROFESSOR  53 

points  which  go  to  make  a  good  clergyman  ;  and  rather  than 
adopt  a  profession  for  which  I  have  no  vocation,  I  would 
endui'e  extremities  of  hardship  from  poverty.' 

'  You're  a  mighty  difficult  customer  to  suit.  You  won't 
be  a  tradesman  or  a  parson ;  you  can't  be  a  lawyer,  or  a 
doctor,  or  a  gentleman,  because  you've  no  money.  I'd 
recommend  you  to  travel.' 

'  What !  without  money  ? ' 

1  You  must  travel  in  search  of  money,  man.  You  can 
speak  French — with  a  vile  English  accent,  no  doubt — still, 
you  can  speak  it.  Go  on  to  the  Continent,  and  see  what 
will  turn  up  for  you  there.' 

1  God  knows  I  should  like  to  go  !  '  exclaimed  I,  with 
involuntary  ardour. 

'  Go  :  what  the  deuce  hinders  you  ?  You  may  get  to 
Brussels,  for  instance,  for  five  or  six  pounds,  if  you  know 
how  to  manage  with  economy.' 

'  Necessity  would  teach  me  if  I  didn't.' 

'  Go,  then,  and  let  your  wits  make  a  way  for  you  when 
you  get  there.  I  know  Brussels  almost  as  well  as  I  know 

X ,  and  I  am  sure  it  would  suit  such  a  one  as  you  better 

than  London.' 

1  But  occupation,  Mr.  Hunsden !  I  must  go  where 
occupation  is  to  be  had ;  and  how  could  I  get  recommenda- 
tion, or  introduction,  or  employment  at  Brussels  ? ' 

'  There  speaks  the  organ  of  caution.  You  hate  to  advance 
a  step  before  you  know  every  inch  of  the  way.  You  haven't 
a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pen-and-ink  ?  ' 

'  I  hope  so,'  and  I  produced  writing  materials  with 
alacrity ;  for  I  guessed  what  he  was  going  to  do.  He  sat 
down,  wrote  a  few  lines,  folded,  sealed,  and  addressed  a  letter, 
and  held  it  out  to  me. 

'  There,  Prudence,  there's  a  pioneer  to  hew  down  the  first 
rough  difficulties  of  your  path.  I  know  well  enough,  lad, 
you  are  not  one  of  those  who  will  run  their  neck  into  a  noose 
without  seeing  how  they  are  to  get  it  out  again,  and  you're 
right  there.  A  reckless  man  is  my  aversion,  and  nothing 


54  THE  PROFESSOR 

should  ever  persuade  me  to  meddle  with  the  concerns  of  such 
a  one.  Those  who  are  reckless  for  themselves  are  generally 
ten  times  more  so  for  their  friends.' 

'This  is  a  letter  of  introduction,  I  suppose?'  said  I, 
taking  the  epistle. 

'  Yes.  With  that  in  your  pocket  you  will  run  no  risk  of 
finding  yourself  in  a  state  of  absolute  destitution,  which,  I 
know,  you  will  regard  as  a  degradation — so  should  I,  for  that 
matter.  The  person  to  whom  you  will  present  it  generally 
has  two  or  three  respectable  places  depending  upon  his 
recommendation.' 

'  That  will  just  suit  me,'  said  I. 

'  Well,  and  where's  your  gratitude  ? '  demanded  Mr. 
Hunsden  ;  '  don't  you  know  how  to  say  "  Thank  you  ?  " 

'  I've  fifteen  pounds  and  a  watch,  which  my  godmother, 
whom  I  never  saw,  gave  me  eighteen  years  ago,'  was  my 
rather  irrevelant  answer;  and  I  further  avowed  myself  a 
happy  man,  and  professed  that  I  did  not  envy  any  being  in 
Christendom. 

'  And  your  gratitude  ? ' 

'  I  shall  be  off  presently,  Mr.  Hunsden — to-morrow,  if  all 

toe  well :    I'll  not  stay  a  day  longer  in   X than  I'm 

obliged.' 

'  Very  good — but  it  will  be  decent  to  make  due  acknow- 
ledgment for  the  assistance  you  have  received;  be  quick! 
It  is  just  going  to  strike  seven  :  I'm  waiting  to  be  thanked." 

'  Just  stand  out  of  the  way,  will  you,  Mr.  Hunsden :  I 
want  a  key  there  is  on  the  corner  of  the  mantelpiece.  I'll 
pack  my  portmanteau  before  I  go  to  bed.' 

The  house  clock  struck  seven. 

'  The  lad  is  a  heathen,'  said  Hunsden,  and  taking  his  hat 
from  a  sideboard,  he  left  the  room,  laughing  to  himself.  I 
had  half  an  inclination  to  follow  him :  I  really  intended  to 

leave  X the  next  morning,  and  should  certainly  not  have 

another  opportunity  of   bidding  him   good-bye.     The   front 
door  banged  to. 

'  Let  him  go,'  said  I,  '  we  shall  meet  again  some  day.' 


CHAPTEE  VII 

EEADER,  perhaps  you  were  never -in  Belgium.  Haply  you 
don't  know  the  physiognomy  of  the  country  ?  You  have  not 
its  lineaments  denned  upon  your  memory,  as  I  have  them 
on  mine? 

Three — nay,  four— pictures  line  the  four-walled  cell 
where  are  stored  for  me  the  records  of  the  past.  First, 
Eton.  All  in  that  picture  is  in  far  perspective,  receding, 
diminutive  ;  but  freshly  coloured,  green,  dewy,  with  a  spring 
sky,  piled  with  glittering  yet  showery  clouds  ;  for  my  child- 
hood was  not  all  sunshine — it  had  its  overcast,  its  cold,  its 

stormy  hours.  Second,  X ,  huge,  dingy ;  the  canvas 

cracked  and  smoked ;  a  yellow  sky,  sooty  clouds  ;  no  sun, 
no  azure  ;  the  verdure  of  the  suburbs  blighted  and  sullied — 
a  very  dreary  scene. 

Third,  Belgium ;  and  I  will  pause  before  this  landscape. 
As  to  the  fourth,  a  curtain  covers  it,  which  I  may  hereafter 
withdraw,  or  may  not,  as  suits  my  convenience  and  capacity. 
At  any  rate,  for  the  present,  it  must  hang  undisturbed. 
Belgium !  name  unromantic  and  unpoetic,  yet  name  that 
whenever  uttered  has  in  my  ear  a  sound,  in  my  heart  an 
echo,  such  as  no  other  assemblage  of  syllables,  however 
sweet  or  classic,  can  produce.  Belgium  !  I  repeat  the  word, 
now  as  I  sit  alone  near  midnight.  It  stirs  my  world  of  the 
past  like  a  summons  to  resurrection  ;  the  graves  unclose,  the 
dead  are  raised ;  thoughts,  feelings,  memories  that  slept,  are 
seen  by  me  ascending  from  the  clods — haloed  most  of  them — 
but  while  I  gaze  on  their  vapoury  forms,  and  strive  to 
ascertain  definitely  their  outline,  the  sound  which  wakened 


56  THE  PiiOFESBOB 

them  dies,  and  they  sink,  each  and  all,  like  a  light  wreath  of 
mist,  absorbed  in  the  mould,  recalled  to  urns,  resealed  in 
monuments.  Farewell,  luminous  phantoms  ! 

This  is  Belgium,  reader.  Look  !  don't  call  the  picture  a 
flat  or  a  dull  one — it  was  neither  flat  nor  dull  to  me  when  I 
first  beheld  it.  When  I  left  Ostend  on  a  mild  February 
morning,  and  found  myself  on  the  road  to  Brussels,  nothing 
could  look  vapid  to  me.  My  sense  of  enjoyment  possessed 
an  edge  whetted  to  the  finest,  untouched,  keen,  exquisite. 
I  was  young ;  I  had  good  health  ;  pleasure  and  I  had  never 
met ;  no  indulgence  of  hers  had  enervated,  or  sated  one 
faculty  of  my  nature.  Liberty  I  clasped  in  my  arms  for  the 
first  time,  and  the  influence  of  her  smile  and  embrace 
revived  my  life  like  the  sun  and  the  west  wind.  Yes,  at  that 
epoch  I  felt  like  a  morning  traveller  who  doubts  not  that 
from  the  hill  he  is  ascending  he  shall  behold  a  glorious 
sunrise ;  what  if  the  track  be  straight,  steep,  and  stony  ?  he 
sees  it  not :  his  eyes  are  fixed  on  that  summit,  flushed 
already,  flushed  and  gilded,  and  having  gained  it  he  is 
certain  of  the  scene  beyond.  He  knows  that  the  sun  will 
face  him,  that  his  chariot  is  even  now  coming  over  the 
eastern  horizon,  and  that  the  herald  breeze  he  feels  on  his 
cheek  is  opening  for  the  god's  career  a  clear,  vast  path  of 
azure,  amidst  clouds  soft  as  pearl  and  warm  as  flame. 
Difficulty  and  toil  were  to  be  my  lot,  but  sustained  by 
energy,  drawn  on  by  hopes  as  bright  as  vague,  I  deemed 
such  a  lot  no  hardship.  I  mounted  now  the  hill  in  shade ; 
there  were  pebbles,  inequalities,  briers  in  my  path,  but  my 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  crimson  peak  above  ;  my  imagination 
was  with  the  refulgent  firmament  beyond,  and  I  thought 
nothing  of  the  stones  turning  under  my  feet,  or  of  the  thorns 
scratching  my  face  and  hands. 

I  gazed  often,  and  always  with  delight,  from  the  window 
of  the  diligence  (these,  be  it  remembered,  were  not  the  days 
of  trains  and  railroads).  Well !  and  what  did  I  see?  I  will 
tell  you  faithfully.  Green,  reedy  swamps ;  fields  fertile  but 
flat,  cultivated  in  patches  that  made  them  look  like  magnified 


57 

kitchen-gardens  ;  belts  of  cut  trees,  formal  as  pollard 
willows,  skirting  the  horizon;  narrow  canals,  gliding  slow 
by  the  road-side ;  painted  Flemish  farm-houses ;  some  very 
dirty  hovels ;  a  grey,  dead  sky  ;  wet  road,  wet  fields,  wet 
house-tops ;  not  a  beautiful,  scarcely  a  picturesque  object 
met  my  eye  along  the  whole  route ;  yet  to  me,  all  was 
beautiful,  all  was  more  than  picturesque.  It  continued  fair 
so  long  as  daylight  lasted,  though  the  moisture  of  many 
preceding  damp  days  had  sodden  the  whole  country ;  as  it 
grew  dark,  however,  the  rain  recommenced,  and  it  was  through 
streaming  and  starless  darkness  my  eye  caught  the  first 
gleam  of  the  lights  of  Brussels.  I  saw  little  of  the  city  but 
its  lights  that  night.  Having  alighted  from  the  diligence,  a 

fiacre  conveyed  me  to  the  Hotel  de ,  where  I  had  been 

advised  by  a  fellow-traveller  to  put  up ;  having  eaten  a 
traveller's  supper,  I  retired  to  bed,  and  slept  a  traveller's 
sleep. 

Next  morning  I  awoke  from  prolonged  and  sound  repose 

with  the  impression  that  I  was  yet  in  X ,  and  perceiving 

it  to  be  broad  daylight  I  started  up,  imagining  that  I  had 
overslept  myself,  and  should  be  behind  time  at  the  counting- 
house.  The  momentary  and  painful  sense  of  restraint 
vanished  before  the  revived  and  reviving  consciousness 
of  freedom,  as,  throwing  back  the  white  curtains  of  my  bed, 
I  looked  forth  into  a  wide,  lofty  foreign  chamber ;  how 
different  from  the  small  and  dingy,  though  not  uncomfortable, 
apartment  I  had  occupied  for  a  night  or  two  at  a  respectable 
inn  in  London  while  waiting  for  the  sailing  of  the  packet ! 
Yet  far  be  it  from  me  to  profane  the  memory  of  that  little 
dingy  room  !  It,  too,  is  dear  to  my  soul ;  for  there,  as  I  lay 
in  quiet  and  darkness,  I  first  heard  the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's 
telling  London  it  was  midnight,  and  well  do  I  recall  the 
deep,  deliberate  tones,  so  full  charged  with  colossal  phlegm 
and  force.  From  the  small,  narrow  window  of  that  room,  I 
first  saw  tlic  dome,  looming  through  a  London  mist.  I 
suppose  the  sensations,  stirred  by  those  first  sounds,  first 
sights,  are  felt  but  once ;  treasure  them,  Memory  ;  seal  them 


58  THE  PEOFESSOE 

in  urns,  and  keep  them  in  safe  niches !  Well — I  rose. 
Travellers  talk  of  the  apartments  in  foreign  dwellings  being 
bare  and  uncomfortable ;  I  thought  my  chamber  looked 
stately  and  cheerful.  It  had  such  large  windows — croisces 
that  opened  like  doors,  with  such  broad,  clear  panes  of  glass  ; 
such  a  great  looking-glass  stood  on  my  dressing-table—such 
a  fine  mirror  glittered  over  the  mantelpiece — the  painted 
floor  looked  so  clean  and  glossy ;  when  I  had  dressed  and 
was  descending  the  stairs,  the  broad  marble  steps  almost 
awed  me,  and  so  did  the  lofty  hall  into  which  they  con- 
ducted. On  the  first  landing  I  met  a  Flemish  housemaid  : 
she  had  wooden  shoes,  a  short  red  petticoat,  a  printed  cotton 
bedgown,  her  face  was  broad,  her  physiognomy  eminently 
stupid ;  when  I  spoke  to  her  in  French,  she  answered  me  in 
Flemish,  with  an  air  the  reverse  of  civil ;  yet  I  thought  her 
charming ;  if  she  was  not  pretty  or  polite,  she  was,  I 
conceived,  very  picturesque ;  she  reminded  me  of  the  female 
figures  in  certain  Dutch  paintings  I  had  seen  in  other  years 
at  Seacombe  Hall. 

I  repaired  to  the  public  room  ;  that,  too,  was  very  large 
and  very  lofty,  and  warmed  by  a  stove  ;  the  floor  was  black, 
and  the  stove  was  black,  and  most  of  the  furniture  was 
black  :  yet  I  never  experienced  a  freer  sense  of  exhilaration 
than  when  I  sat  down  at  a  very  long  black  table  (covered, 
however,  in  part  by  a  white  cloth),  and,  having  ordered 
breakfast,  began  to  pour  out  my  coffee  from  a  little  black 
coffee-pot.  The  stove  might  be  dismal-looking  to  some  eyes, 
not  to  mine,  but  it  was  indisputably  very  warm,  and  there 
wore  two  gentlemen  seated  by  it  talking  in  French ;  im- 
possible to  follow  their  rapid  utterance,  or  comprehend  much 
of  the  purport  of  what  they  said — yet  French,  in  the  mouths 
of  Frenchmen,  or  Belgians  (1  was  not  then  sensible  of  the 
horrors  of  the  Belgian  accent)  was  as  music  to  my  ears. 
One  of  these  gentlemen  presently  discerned  me  to  be  an 
Englishman — no  doubt  from  the  fashion  in  which  I  addressed 
the  waiter  ;  for  I  would  persist  in  speaking  French  in  my 
execrable  South  of  England  style,  though  the  man  under- 


THE  PROFESSOR  59 

stood  English.  The  gentleman,  after  looking  towards  me 
once  or  twice,  politely  accosted  me  in  very  good  English ;  I 
remember  I  wished  to  God  that  I  could  speak  French  as 
well;  his  fluency  and  correct  pronunciation  impressed  me 
for  the  first  time  with  a  due  notion  of  the  cosmopolitan 
character  of  the  capital  I  was  in ;  it  was  my  first  experience 
of  that  skill  in  living  languages  I  afterwards  found  to  be  so 
general  in  Brussels. 

I  lingered  over  my  breakfast  as  long  as  I  could  ;  while  it 
was  there  on  the  table,  and  while  that  stranger  continued 
talking  to  me,  I  was  a  free,  independent  traveller;  but  at  last 
the  things  were  removed,  the  two  gentlemen  left  the  room ; 
suddenly  the  illusion  ceased,  reality  and  business  came  back. 
I,  a  bondsman  just  released  from  the  yoke,  freed  for  one 
week  from  twenty-one  years  of  constraint,  must,  of  necessity, 
resume  the  fetters  of  dependency.  Hardly  had  I  tasted  the 
delight  of  being  without  a  master  when  duty  issued  her 
stern  mandate :  '  Go  forth  and  seek  another  service."  I 
never  linger  over  a  painful  and  necessary  task ;  I  never  take 
pleasure  before  business,  it  is  not  in  my  nature  to  do  so ; 
impossible  to  enjoy  a  leisurely  walk  over  the  city,  though  I 
perceived  the  morning  was  very  fine,  until  I  had  first 
presented  Mr.  Hunsden's  letter  of  introduction,  and  got 
fairly  on  to  the  track  of  a  new  situation.  Wrenching  my 
mind  from  liberty  and  delight,  I  seized  my  hat,  and  forced 
my  reluctant  body  out  of  the  Hotel  de  —  —  into  the  foreign 
street. 

It  was  a  fine  day,  but  I  would  not  look  at  the  blue  sky 
or  at  the  stately  houses  round  me  ;  my  mind  was  bent  on  one 
thing,  finding  out  '  Mr.  Brown,  Numero  — ,  Rue  Royale,'  for 
so  my  letter  was  addressed.  By  dint  of  inquiry  I  succeeded  ; 
I  stood  at  last  at  the  desired  door,  knocked,  asked  for  Mr. 
Brown,  and  was  admitted. 

Being  shown  into  a  small  breakfast-room,  I  found  myself 
in  the  presence  of  an  elderly  gentleman — very  grave, 
business-like,  and  respectable-looking.  I  presented  Mr. 
Hunsden's  letter ;  he  received  me  very  civilly.  After  a 


60  THE   PEOFESSOE 

little  desultory  conversation  he  asked  me  if  there  was  any- 
thing in  which  his  advice  or  experience  could  be  of  use.  I 
said,  '  Yes,'  and  then  proceeded  to  tell  him  that  I  was  not  a 
gentleman  of  fortune,  travelling  for  pleasure,  but  an  ex- 
counting-house  clerk,  who  wanted  employment  of  some  kind, 
and  that  immediately  too.  He  replied  that  as  a  friend  of 
Mr.  Hunsden's  he  would  be  willing  to  assist  me  as  well  as 
he  could.  After  some  meditation  he  named  a  place  in  a 
mercantile  house  at  Liege,  and  another  in  a  bookseller's  shop 
at  Lou  vain. 

'  Clerk  and  shopman  ! '  murmured  I  to  myself.  '  No.'  I 
shook  my  head.  I  had  tried  the  high  stool ;  I  hated  it ;  I 
believed  there  were  other  occupations  that  would  suit  me 
better  ;  besides,  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  Brussels. 

1 1  know  of  no  place  in  Brussels,'  answered  Mr.  Brown, 
'  unless  indeed  you  were  disposed  to  turn  your  attention  to 
teaching.  I  am  acquainted  with  the  director  of  a  large  esta- 
blishment who  is  in  want  of  a  professor  of  English  and  Latin.' 

I  thought  two  minutes,  then  I  seized  the  idea  eagerly. 

'  The  very  thing,  sir !  '  said  I. 

'  But,'  asked  he,  '  do  you  understand  French  well 
enough  to  teach  Belgian  boys  English  ? ' 

Fortunately  I  could  answer  this  question  in  the  affirma- 
tive ;  having  studied  French  under  a  Frenchman,  I  could 
speak  the  language  intelligibly  though  not  fluently.  I  could 
also  read  it  well,  and  write  it  decently. 

'  Then,'  pursued  Mr.  Brown,  '  I  think  I  can  promise  you 
the  place,  for  Monsieur  Pelet  will  not  refuse  a  professor 
recommended  by  me ;  but  come  here  again  at  five  o'clock 
this  afternoon,  and  I  will  introduce  you  to  him.' 

The  word  '  professor '  struck  me.  '  I  am  not  a  professor,' 
said  I. 

'  Oh,'  returned  Mr.  Brown,  '  professor,  here  in  Belgium, 
means  a  teacher,  that  is  all.' 

My  conscience  thus  quieted,  I  thanked  Mr.  Brown,  and, 
for  the  present,  withdrew.  This  time  I  stepped  out  into  the 
Btreft  with  a  relieved  heart;  the  task  I  had  imposed  on. 


THE  PEOFESSOE  61 

myself  for  that  day  was  executed.  I  might  now  take  some 
hours  of  holiday.  I  felt  free  to  look  up.  For  the  first  time 
I  remarked  the  sparkling  clearness  of  the  air,  the  deep  blue 
of  the  sky,  the  gay,  clean  aspect  of  the  whitewashed  or 
painted  houses  ;  I  saw  what  a  fine  street  was  the  Eue 
Royale,  and,  walking  leisurely  along  its  broad  pavement,  I 
continued  to  survey  its  stately  hotels,  till  the  palisades,  the 
gates,  and  trees  of  the  park  appearing  in  sight,  offered  to  my 
eye  a  new  attraction.  I  remember,  before  entering  the  park, 
I  stood  awhile  to  contemplate  the  statue  of  General  Belliard, 
and  then  I  advanced  to  the  top  of  the  great  staircase  just 
beyond,  and  I  looked  down  into  a  narrow  back  street,  which 
I  afterwards  learnt  was  called  the  Eue  d'Isabelle.  I  well 
recollect  that  my  eye  rested  on  the  green  door  of  a  rather 
large  house  opposite,  where,  on  a  brass  plate,  was  inscribed, 
'  Pensionnat  de  Demoiselles.'  Pensionnat !  The  word 
excited  an  uneasy  sensation  in  my  mind ;  it  seemed  to 
speak  of  restraint.  Some  of  the  demoiselles,  externats  no 
doubt,  were  at  that  moment  issuing  from  the  door — I  looked 
for  a  pretty  face  amongst  them,  but  their  close  little 
French  bonnets  hid  their  features  ;  in  a  moment  they  were 
gone. 

I  had  traversed  a  good  deal  of  Brussels  before  five  o'clock 
arrived,  but  punctually  as  that  hour  struck  I  was  again  in 
the  Eue  Eoyale.  Ee-admitted  to  Mr.  Brown's  breakfast- 
room,  I  found  him,  as  before,  seated  at  the  table,  and  he  was 
not  alone — a  gentleman  stood  by  the  hearth.  Two  words  of 
introduction  designated  him  as  my  future  master.  '  M. 
Pelet,  Mr.  Crimsworth ;  Mr.  Crimsworth,  M.  Pelet.'  A  bow 
on  each  side  finished  the  ceremony.  I  don't  know  what  sort 
of  a  bow  I  made  ;  an  ordinary  one,  I  suppose,  for  I  was  in 
a  tranquil,  commonplace  frame  of  mind  ;  I  felt  none  of  the 
agitation  which  had  troubled  my  first  interview  with  Edwaul 
Crimsworth.  M.  Pelet's  bow  was  extremely  polite,  yet  not 
theatrical,  scarcely  French  ;  he  and  I  were  presently  seated 
opposite  to  each  oilier.  In  a  pleasing  voice,  low,  and,  out  of 
ponsideration  to  my  foreign  ears,  very  distinct  and  deliberate. 


62  THE  PROFESSOR 

M.  Pelet  intimated  that  he  had  just  been  receiving  from  '  le 
respectable  M.  Brown,'  an  account  of  my  attainments  and 
character,  which  relieved  him  from  all  scruple  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  engaging  me  as  professor  of  English  and  Latin  in 
his  establishment ;  nevertheless,  for  form's  sake,  he  would 
put  a  few  questions  to  test  my  powers.  He  did,  and 
expressed  in  flattering  terms  his  satisfaction  at  my 
answers.  The  subject  of  salary  next  came  on ;  it  was 
fixed  at  one  thousand  francs  per  annum,  besides  board  and 
lodging.  '  And  in  addition,'  suggested  M.  Pelet,  '  as  there 
will  be  some  hours  in  each  day  during  which  your  services 
will  not  be  required  in  my  establishment,  you  may,  in  time, 
obtain  employment  in  other  seminaries,  and  thus  turn  your 
vacant  moments  to  profitable  account.' 

I  thought  this  very  kind,  and  indeed  I  found  aftei'wards 
that  the  terms  on  which  M.  Pelet  had  engaged  me  were 
really  liberal  for  Brussels ;  instruction  being  extremely 
cheap  there  on  account  of  the  number  of  teachers.  It  was 
further  arranged  that  I  should  be  installed  in  my  new  post 
the  very  next  day,  after  which  M.  Pelet  and  I  parted. 

Well,  and  what  was  he  like?  and  what  were  my 
impressions  concerning  him  ?  He  was  a  man  of  about  forty 
years  of  age,  of  middle  size,  and  rather  emaciated  figure  ;  his 
face  was  pale,  his  cheeks  were  sunk,  and  his  eyes  hollow  ; 
his  features  were  pleasing  and  regular,  they  had  a  French 
turn  (for  M.  Pelet  was  no  Fleming,  but  a  Frenchman  both 
by  birth  and  parentage),  yet  the  degree  of  harshness  in- 
separable from  Gallic  lineaments  \vas,  in  his  case,  softened 
by  a  mild  blue  eye,  and  a  melancholy,  almost  suffering, 
expresssion  of  countenance  ;  his  physiognomy  was  '  fine  et 
spirituelle.'  I  use  two  French  words  because  they  define 
better  than  any  English  terms  the  species  of  intelligence 
with  which  his  features  were  imbued.  He  was  altogether  an 
interesting  and  prepossessing  personage.  I  wondered  only  at 
the  utter  absence  of  all  the  ordinary  characteristics  of  his 
profession,  and  almost  feared  lie  could  not  be  stern  and 
resolute  enough  for  a  schoolmaster.  Externally  at  least 


THE  PROFESSOR  63 

M.  Pelet  presented  an  absolute  contrast  to  my  late  master, 
Edward  Crimsworth. 

Influenced  by  the  impression  I  had  received  of  his 
gentleness,  I  was  a  good  deal  surprised  when,  on  arriving 
the  next  day  at  my  new  employer's  house,  and  being 
admitted  to  a  first  view  of  what  was  to  be  the  sphere  of  my 
future  labours,  namely,  the  large,  lofty,  and  well-lighted 
schoolrooms,  I  beheld  a  numerous  assemblage  of  pupils, 
boys  of  course,  whose  collective  appearance  showed  all  the 
signs  of  a  full,  flourishing,  and  well-disciplined  seminary. 
As  I  traversed  the  classes  in  company  with  M.  Pelet,  a  pro- 
found silence  reigned  on  all  sides,  and  if  by  chance  a 
murmur  or  a  whisper  arose,  one  glance  from  the  pensive 
eye  of  this  most  gentle  pedagogue  stilled  it  instantly.  It 
was  astonishing,  I  thought,  how  so  mild  a  check  could  prove 
so  effectual.  When  I  had  perambulated  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  classes,  M.  Pelet  turned  and  said  to  me — 
'  Would  you  object  to  taking  the  boys  as  they  are,  and 
testing  their  proficiency  in  English  ? ' 

The  proposal  was  unexpected.  I  had  thought  I  should 
have  been  allowed  at  least  a  day  to  prepare ;  but  it  is  a  bad 
omen  to  commence  any  career  by  hesitation,  so  I  just 
stepped  to  the  professor's  desk  near  which  we  stood,  and 
faced  the  circle  of  my  pupils.  I  took  a  moment  to  collect 
my  thoughts,  and  likewise  to  frame  in  French  the  sentence 
by  which  I  proposed  to  open  business.  I  made  it  as  short 
as  possible  : — '  Messieurs,  prenez  vos  livres  de  lecture.' 

'  Anglais  ou  Fra^ais,  Monsieur  ?  '  demanded  a  thick-set, 
moon-faced  young  Flamand  in  a  blouse.  The  answer  was 
fortunately  easy  : — '  Anglais.' 

I  determined  to  give  myself  as  little  trouble  as  possible 
in  this  lesson  ;  it  would  not  do  yet  to  trust  my  unpractised 
tongue  with  the  delivery  of  explanations  ;  my  accent  and 
idiom  would  be  too  open  to  the  criticisms  of  the  young 
gentlemen  before  me,  relative  to  whom  I  felt  already  it 
would  be  necessary  at  once  to  take  up  an  advantageous 
position,  and  I  proceeded  to  employ  means  accordingly. 


64  THE  PROFESSOE 

'  Commencez ! '  cried  I,  when  they  had  all  produced  their 
hooks.  The  moon-faced  youth  (by  name  Jules  Vanderkelkov, 
as  I  afterwards  learnt)  took  the  first  sentence.  The  '  livre 
de  lecture  '  was  the '  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  much  used  in  foreign 
schools  because  it  is  supposed  to  contain  prime  samples  of 
conversational  English ;  it  might,  however,  have  been  a 
Runic  scroll  for  any  resemblance  the  words,  as  enunciated 
by  Jules,  bore  to  the  language  in  ordinary  use  amongst  the 
natives  of  Great  Britain.  My  God  !  how  he  did  snuffle, 
snort,  and  wheeze  !  All  he  said  was  said  in  his  throat  and 
nose,  for  it  is  thus  the  Flamands  speak,  but  I  heard  him  to 
the  end  of  his  paragraph  without  proffering  a  word  of  cor- 
rection, whereat  he  looked  vastly  self-complacent,  convinced, 
no  doubt,  that  he  had  acquitted  himself  like  a  real  born  and 
bred  '  Anglais.'  In  the  same  unmoved  silence  I  listened  to 
a  dozen  in  rotation,  and  when  the  twelfth  had  concluded 
with  splutter,  hiss,  and  mumble,  I  solemnly  laid  down  the 
book. 

'  Arretez !  '  said  I.  There  was  a  pause,  during  which  I 
regarded  them  all  with  a  steady  and  somewhat  stern  gaze  : 
a  dog,  if  stared  at  hard  enough  and  long  enough,  will  show 
symptoms  of  embarrassment,  and  so  at  length  did  my  bench 
of  Belgians.  Perceiving  that  some  of  the  faces  before  me 
were  beginning  to  look  sullen,  and  others  ashamed,  I  slowly 
joined  my  hands,  and  ejaculated  in  a  deep  '  voix  de  poitrine  ' 
— '  Comme  c'est  affreux  ! ' 

They  looked  at  each  other,  pouted,  coloured,  swung  their 
heels  ;  they  were  not  pleased,  I  saw,  but  they  were  impressed, 
and  in  the  way  I  wished  them  to  be.  Having  thus  taken 
them  down  a  peg  in  their  self-conceit,  the  next  step  was  to 
raise  myself  in  their  estimation  ;  not  a  very  easy  thing,  con- 
sidering that  I  hardly  dared  to  speak  for  fear  of  betraying  my 
own  deficiencies. 

'  Ecoutez,  Messieurs ! '  said  I,  and  I  endeavoured  to 
throw  into  my  accents  the  compassionate  tone  of  a  superior 
being,  who,  touched  by  the  extremity  of  the  helplessness, 
which  at  first  only  excited  his  scorn,  duigns  at  length  to 


THE   PROFESSOK  65 

bestow  aid.  I  then  began  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
'  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  and  read,  in  a  slow,  distinct  voice,  some 
twenty  pages,  they  all  the  while  sitting  mute  and  listening 
with  fixed  attention ;  by  the  time  I  had  done  nearly  an  hour 
had  elapsed.  I  then  rose  and  said  : — "  C'est  assez  pour 
aujourd'hui,  Messieurs ;  demain  nous  recommencerons,  et 
j'espere  que  tout  ira  bien.' 

With  this  oracular  sentence  I  bowed,  and  in  company 
with  M.  Pelet  quitted  the  schoolroom. 

'  C'est  bien  !  c'est  tres  bien  ! '  said  my  principal  as  we 
entered  his  parlour.  '  Je  vois  que  monsieur  a  de  1'adresse  ; 
cela  me  plait,  car,  dans  1'instruction,  1'adresse  fait  tout 
autant  que  le  savoir.' 

From  the  parlour  M.  Pelet  conducted  me  to  my  apart- 
ment, my  '  chambre,'  as  Monsieur  said  with  a  certain  air  of 
complacency.  It  was  a  very  small  room,  with  an  excessively 
small  bed,  but  M.  Pelet  gave  me  to  understand  that  I  was  to 
occupy  it  quite  alone,  which  was  of  course  a  great  comfort. 
Yet,  though  so  limited  in  dimensions,  it  had  two  windows. 
Light  not  being  taxed  in  Belgium,  the  people  never  grudge 
its  admission  into  their  houses  ;  just  here,  however,  this 
observation  is  not  very  d  propos,  for  one  of  these  windows 
was  boarded  up  ;  the  open  window  looked  into  the  boys' 
playground.  I  glanced  at  the  other,  as  wondering  what 
aspect  it  would  present  if  disencumbered  of  the  boards. 
M.  Pelet  read,  I  suppose,  the  expression  of  my  eye ;  he 
explained  : — '  La  fenetre  ferme'e  donne  sur  un  jardin  appar- 
tenant  a  un  pensionnat  de  demoiselles,'  said  he,  '  et  les  con- 
venances exigent — enfin,  vous  comprenez — n'est-ce  pas, 
Monsieur  ?  ' 

'  Oui,  oui,'  was  my  reply,  and  I  looked  of  course  quite 
satisfied  ;  but  when  M.  Pelet  had  retired  and  closed  the  door 
after  him,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  scrutinise  closely  the 
nailed  boards,  hoping  to  find  some  chink  or  crevice  which  I 
might  enlarge,  and  so  get  a  peep  at  the  consecrated  ground. 
My  researches  were  vain,  for  the  boards  were  well  joined  and 
strongly  nailed.  It  is  astonishing  how  disappointed  I  felt.  I 

P 


66  THE  PROFESSOR 

thought  it  would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  have  looked  out  upon 
a  garden  planted  with  flowers  and  trees,  so  amusing  to  have 
watched  the  demoiselles  at  their  play  ;  to  have  studied  female 
character  in  a  variety  of  phases,  myself  the  while  sheltered  from 
view  by  a  modest  muslin  curtain,  whereas,  owing  doubtless  to 
the  absurd  scruples  of  some  old  duenna  of  a  directress,  I  had 
now  only  the  option  of  looking  at  a  bare  gravelled  court, 
with  an  enormous  '  pas  de  geant '  in  the  middle,  and  the 
monotonous  walls  and  windows  of  a  boys'  school-house 
round.  Not  only  then,  but  many  a  time  after,  especially  in 
moments  of  weariness  and  low  spirits,  did  I  look  with  dis- 
satisfied eyes  on  that  most  tantalising  board,  longing  to  tear 
it  away  and  get  a  glimpse  of  the  green  region  which  I 
imagined  to  lie  beyond.  I  knew  a  tree  grew  close  up  to  the 
window,  for  though  there  were  as  yet  no  leaves  to  rustle,  I 
often  heard  at  night  the  tapping  of  branches  against  the 
panes.  In  the  daytime,  when  I  listened  attentively,  I  could 
hear,  even  through  the  boards,  the  voices  of  the  demoiselles 
in  their  hours  of  recreation,  and,  to  speak  the  honest  truth, 
my  sentimental  reflections  were  occasionally  a  trifle  dis- 
arranged by  the  not  quite  silvery,  in  fact  the  too  often  brazen 
sounds,  which,  rising  from  the  unseen  paradise  below, 
penetrated  clamorously  into  my  solitude.  Not  to  mince 
matters,  it  really  seemed  to  me  a  doubtful  case  whether  the 
lungs  of  Mdlle.  Reuter's  girls  or  those  of  M.  Pelet's  boys 
were  the  strongest,  and  when  it  came  to  shrieking  the  girls 
indisputably  beat  the  boys  hollow.  I  forgot  to  say,  by-the-by, 
that  Reuter  was  the  name  of  the  old  lady  who  had  had  my 
window  boarded  up.  I  say  old,  for  such  I,  of  course, 
concluded  her  to  be,  judging  from  her  cautious,  chaperon-like 
proceedings  ;  besides,  nobody  ever  spoke  of  her  as  young.  I 
remember  I  was  very  much  amused  when  I  first  heard  her 
Christian  name ;  it  was  Zoraide — Mademoiselle  Zoraide 
Reuter.  But  the  continental  nations  do  allow  themselves 
vagaries  in  the  choice  of  names,  such  as  we  sober  I^nglish 
never  run  into.  I  think,  indeed,  we  have  too  limited  a  list 
to  choose  from. 


THE   PKOFESSOE  67 

Meantime  my  path  was  gradually  growing  smooth  before 
me.  I,  in  a  few  weeks,  conquered  the  teasing  difficulties 
inseparable  from  the  commencement  of  almost  every  career. 
Ere  long  I  had  acquired  as  much  facility  in  speaking  French 
as  set  me  at  my  ease  with  my  pupils  ;  and  as  I  had  en- 
countered them  on  a  right  footing  at  the  very  beginning,  and 
continued  tenaciously  to  retain  the  advantage  I  had  early 
gained,  they  never  attempted  mutiny,  which  circumstance, 
all  who  are  in  any  degree  acquainted  with  the  ongoings  of 
Belgian  schools,  and  who  know  the  relation  in  which 
professors  and  pupils  too  frequently  stand  towards  each 
other  in  those  establishments,  will  consider  an  important  and 
uncommon  one.  Before  concluding  this  chapter  I  will  say  a 
word  on  the  system  I  pursued  with  regard  to  my  classes  :  my 
experience  may  possibly  be  of  use  to  others. 

It  did  not  require  very  keen  observation  to  detect  the 
character  of  the  youth  of  Brabant,  but  it  needed  a  certain 
degree  of  tact  to  adopt  one's  measures  to  their  capacity. 
Their  intellectual  faculties  were  generally  weak,  their  animal 
propensities  strong  ;  thus  there  was  at  once  an  impotence 
and  a  kind  of  inert  force  in  their  natures  ;  they  were  dull,  but 
they  were  also  singularly  stubborn,  heavy  as  lead  and,  like 
lead,  most  difficult  to  move.  Such  being  the  case,  it  would 
have  been  truly  absurd  to  exact  from  them  much  in  the  way 
of  mental  exertion  ;  having  short  memories,  dense  intelligence, 
feeble  reflective  powers,  they  recoiled  with  repugnance  from 
any  occupation  that  demanded  close  study  or  deep  thought. 
Had  the  abhorred  effort  been  extorted  from  them  by  in- 
judicious and  arbitrary  measures  on  the  part  of  the  professor, 
they  would  have  resisted  as  obstinately,  as  clamorously,  as 
desperate  swine  ;  and  though  not  brave  singly,  they  were 
relentless  acting  en  masse. 

I  understood  that  before  my  arrival  in  M.  Pelet's  establish- 
ment the  combined  insubordination  of  the  pupils  had  effected 
the  dismissal  of  more  than  one  English  master.  It  was 
necessary,  then,  to  exact  only  the  most  moderate  application 
from  natures  so  little  qualified  to  apply — to  assist,  in  every 


68  THE  fBOFESSOB 

practicable  way,  understandings  so  opaque  and  contracted — 
to  be  ever  gentle,  considerate,  yielding  even,  to  a  certain 
point,  with  dispositions  so  irrationally  perverse ;  but,  having 
reached  that  culminating  point  of  indulgence,  you  must  fix 
your  foot,  plant  it,  root  it  in  rock — become  immutable  as  the 
towers  of  St.  Gudule  ;  for  a  step — but  half  a  step  farther,  and 
you  would  plunge  headlong  into  the  gulf  of  imbecility ;  there 
lodged,  you  would  speedily  receive  proofs  of  Flemish  grati- 
tude and  magnanimity  in  showers  of  Brabant  saliva  and 
handfuls  of  Low  Country  mud.  You  might  smooth  to  the 
utmost  the  path  of  learning,  remove  every  pebble  from  the 
track  ;  but  then  you  must  finally  insist  with  decision  on  the 
pupil  taking  your  arm  and  allowing  himself  to  be  led  quietly 
along  the  prepared  road.  When  I  had  brought  down  my 
lesson  to  the  lowest  level  of  my  dullest  pupil's  capacity — 
when  I  had  shown  myself  the  mildest,  the  most  tolerant  of 
masters — a  word  of  impertinence,  a  movement  of  dis- 
obedience, changed  me  at  once  into  a  despot.  I  offered  then 
but  one  alternative — submission  and  acknowledgment  of 
error,  or  ignominious  expulsion.  This  system  answered,  and 
my  influence,  by  degrees,  became  established  on  a  firm  basis. 
'  The  boy  is  father  to  the  man,'  it  is  said ;  and  so  I  often 
thought  when  I  looked  at  my  boys  and  remembered  the 
political  history  of  their  ancestors.  Pelet's  school  was 
merely  an  epitome  of  the  Belgian  nation. 


CHAPTEE  VIII 

AND  Pelet  himself  ?  How  did  I  continue  to  like  him  ?  Oh, 
extremely  well !  Nothing  could  be  more  smooth,  gentleman- 
like, and  even  friendly,  than  his  demeanour  to  me.  I  had  to 
endure  from  him  neither  cold  neglect,  irritating  interference, 
nor  pretentious  assumption  of  superiority.  I  fear,  however, 
two  poor,  hard-worked  Belgian  ushers  in  the  establishment 
could  not  have  said  as  much ;  to  them  the  director's  manner 
was  invariably  dry,  stern,  and  cool.  I  believe  he  perceived 
once  or  twice  that  I  was  a  little  shocked  at  the  difference  he 
made  between  them  and  me,  and  accounted  for  it  by  saying, 
with  a  quiet  sarcastic  smile — '  Ce  ne  sont  quo  des  Flamands 
— allcz  !  ' 

And  then  he  took  his  cigar  gently  from  his  lips  and  spat 
on  the  painted  floor  of  the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting. 
Flamands  certainly  they  were,  and  both  had  the  true 
Flamand  physiognomy,  where  intellectual  inferiority  is 
marked  in  lines  none  can  mistake  ;  still  they  were  men,  and, 
in  the  main,  honest  men  ;  and  I  could  not  see  why  their 
being  aboriginals  of  the  flat,  dull  soil  should  serve  as  a  pre- 
text for  treating  them  with  perpetual  severity  and  contempt. 
This  idea  of  injustice  somewhat  poisoned  the  pleasure  I 
might  otherwise  have  derived  from  Pelet's  soft,  affable 
manner  to  myself.  Certainly  it  was  agreeable,  when  the 
day's  work  was  over,  to  find  one's  employer  an  intelligent 
and  cheerful  companion  ;  and  if  he  was  sometimes  a  little 
sarcastic  and  sometimes  a  little  too  insinuating,  and  if  I  did 
discover  that  his  mildness  was  more  a  matter  of  appearance 
than  of  reality — if  I  did  occasionally  suspect  the  existence  of 


70  THE  PKOFESSOB 

flint  or  steel  under  an  external  covering  of  velvet — still  we 
are  none  of  us  perfect ;  and  weary  as  I  was  of  the  atmosphere 
of  brutality  and  insolence  in  which  I  had  constantly  lived  at 

X ,  I  had  no  inclination  now,  on  casting  anchor  in  calmer 

regions,  to  institute  at  once  a  prying  search  after  defects  that 
were  scrupulously  withdrawn  and  carefully  veiled  from  my 
view.  I  was  willing  to  take  Pelet  for  what  he  seemed — to 
believe  him  benevolent  and  friendly  until  some  untoward 
event  should  prove  him  otherwise.  He  was  not  marriedi 
and  I  soon  perceived  he  had  all  a  Frenchman's,  all  a 
Parisian's  notions  about  matrimony  and  women.  I  sus- 
pected a  degree  of  laxity  in  his  code  of  morals,  there  was 
something  so  cold  and  blase  in  his  tone  whenever  he  alluded 
to  what  he  called  '  le  beau  sexe  ' ;  but  he  was  too  gentleman- 
like to  intrude  topics  I  did  not  invite,  and  as  he  was  really 
intelligent  and  really  fond  of  intellectual  subjects  of  discourse, 
he  and  I  always  found  enough  to  talk  about,  without  seeking 
themes  in  the  mire.  I  hated  his  fashion  of  mentioning  love  ; 
I  abhorred,  from  my  soul,  mere  licentiousness.  He  felt  the 
diffei'ence  of  our  notions,  and,  by  mutual  consent,  we  kept 
off  ground  debatable. 

Pelet's  house  was  kept  and  his  kitchen  managed  by  his 
mother,  a  real  old  Frenchwoman  ;  she  had  been  handsome — 
at  least  she  told  me  so,  and  I  strove  to  believe  her ;  she  was 
now  ugly,  as  only  continental  old  women  can  be  ;  perhaps, 
though,  her  style  of  dress  made  her  look  uglier  than  she 
really  was.  Indoors  she  would  go  about  without  cap,  her 
grey  hair  strangely  dishevelled  ;  then,  when  at  home,  she 
seldom  wore  a  gown — only  a  shabby  cotton  camisole  ;  shoes, 
too,  were  strangers  to  her  feet,  and  in  lieu  of  them  she 
sported  roomy  slippers,  trodden  down  at  the  heels.  On  the 
other  hand,  whenever  it  was  her  pleasure  to  appear  abroad, 
as  on  Sundays  and  fete-days,  she  would  put  on  some  very 
brilliant-coloured  dress,  usually  of  thin  texture,  a  silk  bonnet 
with  a  wreath  of  flowers,  and  a  very  fine  shawl.  She  was 
not,  in  the  main,  an  ill-natured  old  woman,  but  an  incessant 
and  most  indiscreet  talker ;  she  kept  chiefly  in  and  about  the 


THE   PROFESSOR  71 

kitchen,  and  seemed  rather  to  avoid  her  son's  august  pre- 
sence ;  of  him,  indeed,  she  evidently  stood  in  awe.  When 
he  reproved  her,  his  reproofs  were  bitter  and  unsparing ;  but 
he  seldom  gave  himself  that  trouble. 

Madame  Pelet  had  her  own  society,  her  own  circle  of 
chosen  visitors,  whom,  however,  I  seldom  saw,  as  she  gene- 
rally entertained  them  in  what  she  called  her  '  cabinet/  a 
small  den  of  a  place  adjoining  the  kitchen,  and  descending 
into  it  by  one  or  two  steps.  On  these  steps,  by-the-by,  I 
have  not  unfrequently  seen  Madame  Pelet  seated  with  a 
trencher  on  her  knee,  engaged  in  the  threefold  employment 
of  eating  her  dinner,  gossiping  with  her  favourite  servant, 
the  housemaid,  and  scolding  her  antagonist,  the  cook ;  she 
never  dined,  and  seldom  indeed  took  any  meal  with  her  son  ; 
and  as  to  showing  her  face  at  the  boys'  table,  that  was  quite 
out  of  the  question.  These  details  will  sound  very  odd  in 
English  ears,  but  Belgium  is  not  England,  and  its  ways  are 
not  our  ways. 

Madame  Pelet's  habits  of  life,  then,  being  taken  into  con- 
sideration, I  was  a  good  deal  surprised  when,  one  Thursday 
evening  (Thursday  was  always  a  half-holiday),  as  I  was 
sitting  all  alone  in  my  apartment,  correcting  a  huge  pile  of 
English  and  Latin  exercises,  a  servant  tapped  at  the  door, 
and,  on  its  being  opened,  presented  Madame  Pelet's  compli- 
ments, and  she  would  be  happy  to  see  me  to  take  my 
'  gouter '  (a  meal  which  answers  to  our  English  '  tea ')  with 
her  in  the  dining-room. 

'  Plalt-il  ?  '  said  I,  for  I  thought  I  must  have  misunder- 
stood, the  message  and  invitation  were  so  unusual ;  the  same 
words  were  repeated.  I  accepted,  of  course,  and  as  I 
descended  the  stairs,  I  wondered  what  whim  had  entered 
the  old  lady's  brain  ;  her  son  was  out — gone  to  pass  the 
evening  at  the  Salle  of  the  Grande  Harmonic  or  some  other 
club  of  which  he  was  a  member.  Just  as  I  laid  my  hand  on 
the  handle  of  the  dining-room  door,  a  queer  idea  glanced 
across  my  mind. 

'  Surely  she's  not  going  to  make  love  to  me,'  said  I.    '  I've 


72  THE  PROFESSOR 

heard  of  old  Frenchwomen  doing  odd  things  in  that  line  : 
and  the  gouter?  They  generally  begin  such  affairs  with 
eating  and  drinking,  I  believe.' 

There  was  a  fearful  dismay  in  this  suggestion  of  my 
excited  imagination,  and  if  I  had  allowed  myself  time  to 
dwell  upon  it,  I  should  no  doubt  have  cut  there  and  then, 
rushed  back  to  my  chamber,  and  bolted  myself  in  ;  but  when- 
ever a  danger  or  a  horror  is  veiled  with  uncertainty,  the 
primary  wish  of  the  mind  is  to  ascertain  first  the  naked 
truth,  reserving  the  expedient  of  flight  for  the  moment  when 
its  dread  anticipation  shall  be  realised.  I  turned  the  door- 
handle, and  in  an  instant  had  crossed  the  fatal  threshold, 
closed  the  door  behind  me,  and  stood  in  the  presence  of 
Madame  Pelet. 

'  Gracious  heavens  !  The  first  view  of  her  seemed  to  con- 
firm my  worst  apprehensions.  There  she  sat,  dressed  out  in 
a  light  green  muslin  gown,  on  her  head  a  lace  cap  with 
flourishing  red  roses  in  the  frill ;  her  table  was  carefully 
spread ;  there  were  fruit,  cakes,  and  coffee,  with  a  bottle  of 
something — I  did  not  know  what.  Already  the  cold  sweat 
started  on  my  brow,  already  I  glanced  back  over  my  shoulder 
at  the  closed  door,  when,  to  my  unspeakable  relief,  my  eye, 
wandering  wildly  in  the  direction  of  the  stove,  rested  upon  a 
uecond  figure,  seated  in  a  large  fauteuil  beside  it  This  was 
a  woman,  too,  and,  moreover,  an  old  woman,  and  as  fat  and 
as  rubicund  as  Madame  Pelet  was  meagre  and  yellow  ;  her 
attire  was  likewise  very  fine,  and  spring  flowers  of  different 
hues  circled  in  a  bright  wreath  the  crown  of  her  violet- 
coloured  velvet  bonnet. 

I  had  only  time  to  make  these  general  observations  when 
Madame  Pelet,  coming  forward  with  what  she  intended 
should  lie  a  graceful  and  elastic  step,  thus  accosted  me  : 
'  Monsieur  is  indeed  most  obliging  to  quit  his  books,  his 
studies,  at  the  request  of  an  insignificant  person  like  me—- 
will Monsieur  complete  his  kindness  by  allowing  me  to  pre- 
sent him  to  my  clear  friend  Madame  Keuter,  who  resides  in 
the  neighbouring  house — the  young  ladies'  school?' 


THE   PROFESSOR  73 

1  Ah ! '  thought  I,  '  I  knew  she  was  old,'  and  I  bowed  and 
took  my  seat.  Madame  Eeuter  placed  herself  at  the  table 
opposite  to  me. 

'  How  do  you  like  Belgium,  Monsieur  ? '  asked  she,  in  an 
accent  of  the  broadest  Bruxellois.  I  could  now  well  distin- 
guish the  difference  between  the  fine  and  pure  Parisian  utter- 
ance of  M.  Pelet,  for  instance,  and  the  guttural  enunciation 
of  the  Flamands.  I  answered  politely,  and  then  wondered 
how  so  coarse  and  clumsy  an  old  woman  as  the  one  before 
me  should  be  at  the  head  of  a  ladies'  seminary  which  I  had 
always  heard  spoken  of  in  terms  of  high  commendation.  In 
truth  there  was  something  to  wonder  at.  Madame  Reuter 
looked  more  like  a  joyous,  free -living  old  Flemish  fermiere,  or 
even  a  maltresse  d'auberge,  than  a  staid,  grave,  rigid  directrice 
de  pensionnat.  In  general  the  continental,  or  at  least  the 
Belgian  old  women,  permit  themselves  a  licence  of  manners, 
speech,  and  aspect,  such  as  our  venerable  grand-dames  would 
recoil  from  as  absolutely  disreputable,  and  Madame  Reuter's 
jolly  face  bore  evidence  that  she  was  no  exception  to  the  rule 
of  her  country ;  there  was  a  twinkle  and  leer  in  her  left  eye  ; 
her  right  she  kept  habitually  half  shut,  which  I  thought  very 
odd  indeed.  After  several  vain  attempts  to  comprehend  the 
motives  of  these  two  droll  old  creatures  for  inviting  me  to 
join  them  at  their  gouter,  I  at  last  fairly  gave  it  up,  and 
resigning  myself  to  inevitable  mystification,  I  sat  and  looked 
first  at  one,  then  at  the  other,  taking  care  meantime  to  do 
justice  to  the  confitures,  cakes,  and  coffee,  with  which  they 
amply  supplied  me.  They,  too,  ate,  and  that  with  no  delicate 
appetite,  and  having  demolished  a  large  portion  of  the  solids, 
they  proposed  a  '  petit  verre.'  I  declined.  Not  so  Mesdames 
Pelet  and  Reuter  ;  each  mixed  herself  what  I  thought  rather 
a  stiff  tumbler  of  punch,  and  placing  it  on  a  stand  near  the 
stove,  they  drew  up  their  chairs  to  that  convenience,  and 
invited  me  to  do  the  same.  I  obeyed  ;  and  being  seated 
fairly  between  them,  I  was  thus  addressed  first  by  Madame 
Pelet,  then  by  Madame  Reuter,— 

'  We  will  now  speak  of  business,'    said   Madame  Pelet, 


74  THE   PEOFESSOR 

and  she  went  on  to  make  an  elaborate  speech,  which,  being 
interpreted,  was  to  the  effect  that  she  had  asked  for  the 
pleasure  of  rny  company  that  evening  in  order  to  give  her 
friend  Madame  Eeuter  an  opportunity  of  broaching  an 
important  proposal,  which  might  turn  out  greatly  to  my 
advantage. 

'  Pourvu  que  vous  soyez  sage,'  said  Madame  Reuter,  '  et 
a  vrai  dire,  vous  en  avez  bien  1'air.  Take  one  drop  of  the 
punch  '  (or  ponche,  as  she  pronounced  it) ;  '  it  is  an  agreeable 
and  wholesome  beverage  after  a  full  meal.' 

I  bowed,  but  again  declined  it.  She  went  on :  '  I  feel,' 
said  she,  after  a  solemn  sip — '  I  feel  profoundly  the  import- 
ance of  the  commission  with  which  my  dear  daughter  has 
entrusted  me,  for  you  are  aware,  Monsieur,  that  it  is  my 
daughter  who  directs  the  establishment  in  the  next  house  ?  ' 

'  Ah !  I  thought  it  was  yourself,  Madame.'  Though, 
indeed,  at  that  moment  I  recollected  that  it  was  called 
Mademoiselle,  not  Madame  Renter's  pensionnat. 

'  I !  oh,  no !  I  manage  the  house  and  look  after  the 
servants,  as  my  friend  Madame  Pelet  does  for  Monsieur  her 
son— nothing  more.  Ah !  you  thought  I  gave  lessons  in 
class — did  you  ?  ' 

And  she  laughed  loud  and  long,  as  though  the  idea 
tickled  her  fancy  amazingly. 

'  Madame  is  in  the  wrong  to  laugh,'  I  observed  ;  '  if  she 
does  not  give  lessons,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  because  she  cannot ; ' 
and  I  whipped  out  a  white  pocket-handkerchief  and  wafted 
it,  with  a  French  grace,  past  my  nose,  bowing  at  the  same 
time. 

'  Quel  charmant  jeune  homme  !  '  murmured  Madame 
Pelet  in  a  low  voice.  Madame  Reuter,  being  less  senti- 
mental, as  she  was  Flamand  and  not  French,  only  laughed 
again. 

'  You  are  a  dangerous  person,  I  fear,'  said  she  ;  '  if  you 
can  foi  ge  compliments  at  that  rate,  Zoraide  will  positively 
be  afraid  of  you  ;  but  if  you  are  good,  I  will  keep  your  secret, 
and  not  tell  liui-  how  v.vll  you  can  flatter.  Now,  listen  what 


THE  PROFESSOR  75 

sort  of  a  proposal  she  makes  to  you.  She  has  heard  that 
you  are  an  excellent  professor,  and  as  she  wishes  to  get  the 
very  best  masters  for  her  school  (car  Zoraide  fait  tout  comme 
une  reine,  c'est  une  veritable  maitresse-femme),  she  has 
commissioned  me  to  step  over  this  afternoon,  and  sound 
Madame  Pelet  as  to  the  possibility  of  engaging  you.  Zoraide 
is  a  wary  general ;  she  never  advances  without  first  examin- 
ing well  her  ground.  I  don't  think  she  would  be  pleased  if 
she  knew  I  had  already  disclosed  her  intentions  to  you  ;  she 
did  not  order  me  to  go  so  far,  but  I  thought  there  would  be 
no  harm  in  letting  you  into  the  secret,  and  Madame  Pelet 
was  of  the  same  opinion.  Take  care,  however,  you  don't 
betray  either  of  us  to  Zoraide — to  my  daughter,  I  mean  ;  she 
is  so  discreet  and  circumspect  herself,  she  cannot  understand 
that  one  should  find  a  pleasure  in  gossiping  a  little — 

'  C'est  absolument  comme  mon  fils ! '  cried  Madame 
Pelet. 

'  All  the  world  is  so  changed  since  our  girlhood  ! '  rejoined 
the  other :  '  young  people  have  such  old  heads  now.  But  to 
return,  Monsieur.  Madame  Pelet  will  mention  the  subject 
of  your  giving  lessons,  in  my  daughter's  establishment  to  her 
son,  and  he  will  speak  to  you ;  and  then  to-morrow,  you 
will  step  over  to  our  house,  and  ask  to  see  my  daughter,  and 
you  will  introduce  the  subject  as  if  the  first  intimation  of  it 
had  reached  you  from  M.  Pelet  himself,  and  be  sure  you 
never  mention  my  name,  for  I  would  not  displease  Zoraide 
on  any  account.' 

'  Bien  !  bien  ! '  interrupted  I — for  all  this  chatter  and 
circumlocution  began  to  bore  me  very  much  ;  '  I  will  consult 
M.  Pelet,  and  the  thing  shall  be  settled  as  you  desire. 
Good  evening,  Mesdames — I  am  infinitely  obliged  to  you.' 

'  Comment !  vous  vous  en  allez  deja  ?  '  exclaimed  Madame 
Pelet. 

'  Prenez  encore  quelquechose,  Monsieur ;  une  pomme 
cuite,  des  biscuits,  encore  une  tasse  do  cafe  ? ' 

1  Merci,  mevci,  Madame — au  revoir.'  And  I  backed  at 
last  out  of  the  apartment. 


76  THE  PKOFESSOK 

Having  regained  my  own  room,  I  set  myself  to  turn  over 
in  my  mind  the  incident  of  the  evening.  It  seemed  a  queer 
affair  altogether,  and  queerly  managed ;  the  two  old  women 
had  made  quite  a  little  intricate  mess  of  it ;  still  I  found  that 
the  uppermost  feeling  in  my  mind  on  the  subject  was  one  of 
satisfaction.  In  the  first  place  it  would  be  a  change  to  give 
lessons  in  another  seminary,  and  then  to  teach  young  ladies 
would  be  an  occupation  so  interesting — to  be  admitted  at  all 
into  a  ladies'  boarding-school  would  be  an  incident  so  new 
in  my  life.  '  Besides,'  thought  I,  as  I  glanced  at  the  boarded 
window,  '  I  shall  now  at  last  see  the  mysterious  garden :  I 
shall  gaze  both  on  the  angels  and  their  Eden.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

M.  PELET  could  not  of  course  object  to  the  proposal  made 
by  Mdlle.  Eeuter ;  permission  to  accept  such  additional 
employment,  should  it  offer,  having  formed  an  article  of  the 
terms  on  which  he  had  engaged  me.  It  was,  therefore, 
arranged  in  the  course  of  next  day  that  I  should  be  at  liberty 
to  give  lessons  in  Mdlle.  Eeuter's  establishment  four  after- 
noons in  every  week. 

When  evening  came  I  prepared  to  step  over  in  order  to 
seek  a  conference  with  Mademoiselle  herself  on  the  subject : 
I  had  not  had  time  to  pay  the  visit  before,  having  been  all 
day  closely  occupied  in  class.  I  remember  very  well  that 
before  quitting  my  chamber  I  held  a  brief  debate  with 
myself  as  to  whether  I  should  change  my  ordinary  attire  for 
something  smarter.  At  last  I  concluded  it  would  bo  a  waste 
of  labour.  '  Doubtless,'  thought  I,  '  she  is  some  stiff  old 
maid ;  for  though  the  daughter  of  Madame  Eeuter,  she  may 
well  number  upwards  of  forty  winters  ;  besides,  if  it  were 
otherwise,  if  she  bo  both  young  and  pretty,  I  am  not  hand- 
some, and  no  dressing  can  make  me  so,  therefore  I'll  go  as  I 
am.'  And  off  I  started,  cursorily  glancing  sideways  as  I 
passed  the  toilet-table,  surmounted  by  a  looking-glass  :  a  thin, 
irregular  face  I  saw,  with  sunk,  dark  eyes  under  a  large, 
square  forehead,  complexion  destitute  of  bloom  or  attraction  ; 
something  young,  but  not  youthful,  no  object  to  win  a  lady's 
love,  no  butt  for  the  shafts  of  Cupid. 

I  was  soon  at  the  entrance  of  the  pensionnat,  in  a  moment 
I  had  pulled  the  bell  ;  in  another  moment  the  door  was 
opened,  and  within  appeared  a  passage  paved  alternately 


78  THE  PROFESSOR 

with  black  and  white  marble;  the  walls  were  painted  in 
imitation  of  marble  also ;  and  at  the  far  end  opened  a  glass 
door,  through  which  I  saw  shrubs  and  a  grass-plat,  looking 
pleasant  in  the  sunshine  of  the  mild  spring  evening — for  it 
was  now  the  middle  of  April. 

This,  then,  was  my  first  glimpse  of  the  garden  ;  but  I 
had  not  time  to  look  long :  the  portress,  after  having 
answered  in  the  affirmative  my  question  as  to  whether  her 
mistress  was  at  home,  opened  the  folding-doors  of  a  room 
to  the  left,  and  having  ushered  me  in,  closed  them  behind 
me.  I  found  myself  in  a  salon  with  a  very  well-painted, 
highly  varnished  floor ;  chairs  and  sofas  covered  with  white 
draperies,  a  green  porcelain  stove,  walls  hung  with  pictures 
in  gilt  frames,  a  gilt  pendule  and  other  ornaments  on  the 
mantelpiece,  a  large  lustre  pendent  from  the  centre  of  the 
ceiling,  mirrors,  consoles,  muslin  curtains,  and  a  handsome 
centre  table  completed  the  inventory  of  furniture.  All 
looked  extremely  clean  and  glittering,  but  the  general  effect 
would  have  been  somewhat  chilling  had  not  a  second  large 
pair  of  folding-doors,  standing  wide  open,  and  disclosing 
another  and  smaller  salon,  more  snugly  furnished,  offered 
some  relief  to  the  eye.  This  room  was  carpeted,  and  therein 
was  a  piano,  a  couch,  a  chiffonniere — above  all,  it  contained 
a  lofty  window  with  a  crimson  curtain,  which,  being  un- 
drawn, afforded  another  glimpse  of  the  garden,  through  the 
large,  clear  panes,  round  which  some  leaves  of  ivy,  some 
tendrils  of  vine  were  trained. 

'  Monsieur  Creemsvort,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  '  said  a  voice  behind 
me ;  and,  starting  involuntarily,  I  turned.  I  had  been  so 
taken  up  with  the  contemplation  of  the  pretty  little  salon 
that  I  had  not  noticed  the  entrance  of  a  person  into  the 
larger  room.  It  was,  however,  Mdlle.  Eeuter  who  now 
addressed  me,  and  stood  close  beside  me  ;  and  when  I  had 
bowed  with  instantaneously  recovered  sang-froid — for  I  am 
not  easily  embarrassed — I  commenced  the  conversation  by 
remarking  on  the  pleasant  aspect  of  her  little  cabinet,  and 
the  advantage  she  had  over  M.  Pelet  in  possessing  a  garden. 


THE   PEOFESSOR  79 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  '  she  often  thought  so  ; '  and  added,  '  it  is 
my  garden,  Monsieur,  which  makes  me  retain  this  house, 
otherwise  I  should  probably  have  removed  to  larger  and 
more  commodious  premises  long  since  ;  but  you  see  I  could 
not  take  my  garden  with  me,  and  I  should  scarcely  find  one 
so  large  and  pleasant  anywhere  else  in  town.' 

I  approved  her  judgment. 

1  But  you  have  not  seen  it  yet,'  said  she,  rising  ;  '  come 
to  the  window  and  take  a  better  view.'  I  followed  her ;  she 
opened  the  sash,  and  leaning  out  I  saw  in  full  the  enclosed 
demesne  which  had  hitherto  been  to  me  an  unknown  region. 
It  was  a  long,  not  very  broad  strip  of  cultured  ground,  with 
an  alley  bordered  by  enormous  old  fruit-trees  down  the 
middle  ;  there  was  a  sort  of  lawn,  a  parterre  of  rose-trees, 
some  flower-borders,  and,  on  the  far  side,  a  thickly-planted 
copse  of  lilacs,  laburnums,  and  acacias.  It  looked  pleasant, 
to  me — very  pleasant,  so  long  a  time  had  elapsed  since  I 
had  seen  a  garden  of  any  sort.  But  it  was  not  only  on 
Mdlle.  Reuter's  garden  that  my  eyes  dwelt ;  when  I  had 
taken  a  view  of  her  well-trimmed  beds  and  budding 
shrubberies,  I  allowed  my  glance  to  come  back  to  herself, 
nor  did  I  hastily  withdraw  it. 

I  had  thought  to  see  a  tall,  meagre,  yellow,  conventual 
image  in  black,  with  a  close  white  cap,  bandaged  under  the 
chin  like  a  nun's  head-gear ;  whereas,  there  stood  by  me  a 
little  and  roundly  formed  woman,  who  might  indeed  be 
older  than  I,  but  was  still  young ;  she  could  not,  I  thought, 
be  more  than  six  or  seven  and  twenty  ;  she  was  as  fair  as  a 
fair  Englishwoman ;  she  had  no  cap ;  her  hair  was  nut- 
brown,  and  she  wore  it  in  curls  ;  pretty  her  features  were  not, 
nor  very  soft,  nor  very  regular,  but  neither  were  they  in  any 
degree  plain,  and  I  already  saw  cause  to  deem  them  expres- 
sive. What  was  their  predominant  cast  ?  Was  it  sagacity  ? 
— sense  ?  Yes,  I  thought  so ;  but  I  could  scarcely  as  yet 
be  sure.  I  discovered,  however,  that  there  was  a  certain 
serenity  of  eye,  and  freshness  of  complexion,  most  pleasing 
to  behold.  The  colour  on  her  cheek  was  like  the  bloom  on  a 


80  THE  PEOFE8SOB 

good  apple,  which  is  as  sound  at  the  core  as  it  is  red  on  the 
rind. 

Mdlle.  Keuler  and  I  entered  upon  business.  She  said 
she  was  not  absolutely  certain  of  the  wisdom  of  the  step  she 
was  about  to  take,  because  I  was  so  young,  and  parents 
might  possibly  object  to  a  professor  like  me  for  their 
daughters.  '  But  it  is  often  well  to  act  on  one's  own  judg- 
ment,' said  she,  '  and  to  lead  parents,  rather  than  be  led  by 
them.  The  fitness  of  a  professor  is  not  a  matter  of  age  ; 
and,  from  what  I  have  heard,  and  from  what  I  observe 
myself,  I  would  much  rather  trust  you  than  M.  Ledru,  the 
music-master,  who  is  a  married  man  of  near  fifty.' 

I  remarked  that  I  hoped  she  would  find  m6  worthy  of 
her  good  opinion ;  that  if  I  knew  myself,  I  was  incapable  of 
betraying  any  confidence  reposed  in  me.  '  Du  reste,'  said 
she,  '  the  surveillance  will  be  strictly  attended  to.'  And 
then  she  proceeded  to  discuss  the  subject  of  terms.  She  was 
very  cautious,  quite  on  her  guard  ;  she  did  not  absolutely 
bargain,  but  she  warily  sounded  me  to  find  out  what  my 
expectations  might  be  ;  and  when  she  could  not  get  me  to 
name  a  sum,  she  reasoned  and  reasoned  with  a  fluent  yet 
quiet  circumlocution  of  speech,  and  at  last  nailed  me  down 
to  five  hundred  francs  per  annum — not  too  much,  but  I 
agreed.  Before  the  negotiation  was  completed,  it  began  to 
grow  a  litle  dusk.  I  did  not  hasten  it,  for  I  liked  well 
enough  to  sit  and  hear  her  talk ;  I  was  amused  with  the  sort 
of  business  talent  she  displayed.  Edward  could  not  have 
shown  himself  more  practical,  though  he  might  have  evinced 
more  coarseness  and  urgency  ;  and  then  she  had  so  many 
reasons,  so  many  explanations ;  and,  after  all,  she  succeeded 
in  proving  herself  quite  disinterested  and  even  liberal.  At 
last  she  concluded,  she  could  say  no  more,  because,  as  I 
acquiesced  in  all  things,  there  was  no  further  ground  for  the 
exercise  of  her  parts  of  speech.  I  was  obliged  to  rise.  I 
would  rather  have  sat  a  little  longer :  what  had  I  to  return 
to  but  my  small  empty  room  ?  And  my  eyes  had  a  pleasure 
in  looking  at  Mdlle.  Router,  especially  now,  when  the 


THE   PEOFESSOE  81 

twilight  softened  her  features  a  little,  and,  in  the  doubtful 
dusk,  I  could  fancy  her  forehead  as  open  as  it  was  really 
elevated,  her  mouth  touched  with  turns  of  sweetness  as  well 
as  defined  in  lines  of  sense.  When  I  rose  to  go,  I  held  out 
my  hand,  on  purpose,  though  I  knew  it  was  contrary  to  the 
etiquette  of  foreign  habits  ;  she  smiled,  and  said — '  Ah  ! 
c'est  comme  tous  les  Anglais,'  but  gave  me  her  hand  very 
kindly. 

1  It  is  the  privilege  of  my  country,  Mademoiselle,'  said  I ; 
1  and  remember,  I  shall  always  claim  it.' 

She  laughed  a  little,  quite  good-naturedly,  and  with  the 
sort  of  tranquillity  obvious  in  all  she  did — a  tranquillity  which 
soothed  and  suited  me  singularly,  at  least  I  thought  so  that 
evening.  Brussels  seemed  a  very  pleasant  place  to  me  when 
I  got  out  again  into  the  street,  and  it  appeared  as  if  some 
cheerful,  eventful,  upward-tending  career  were  even  then 
opening  to  me,  on  that  selfsame  mild,  still  April  night.  So 
impressionable  a  being  is  man,  or  at  least  such  a  man  as  I 
was  in  those  days. 


CHAPTEK  X 

NEXT  day  the  morning  hours  seemed  to  pass  very  slowly  at 
M.  Pelet's ;  I  wanted  the  afternoon  to  come  that  I  might 
go  again  to  the  neighbouring  pensionnat  and  give  my  first 
lesson  within  its  pleasant  precincts;  for  pleasant  they 
appeared  to  me.  At  noon  the  hour  of  recreation  arrived ;  at 
one  o'clock  we  had  lunch ;  this  got  on  the  time,  and  at  last 
St.  Gudule's  deep  boll,  tolling  slowly  two,  marked  the 
moment  for  which  I  had  been  waiting. 

At  the  foot  of  the  narrow  back-stairs  that  descended  from 
my  room,  I  met  M.  Pelet. 

'  Comme  vous  avez  1'air  rayonnant !  '  said  he.  '  Je  ne 
vous  ai  jamais  vu  aussi  gai.  Que  s'est-il  done  passe  ?  ' 

'  Apparemment  que  j'aime  les  changements,'  replied  I. 

'  Ah  !  je  comprends — c'est  cela — soyez  sage  seulement, 
Vous  etes  bien  jeune — trop  jeune  pour  le  role  que  vous 
allez  jouer  ;  il  faut  prendre  garde — savez-vous  ?  ' 

'  Mais  quel  danger  y  a-t-il  ?  ' 

'  Je  n'en  sais  rien — ne  vous  laissez  pas  aller  a  de  vives 
impressions — voila  tout.' 

I  laughed  :  a  sentiment  of  exquisite  pleasure  played  over 
my  nerves  at  the  thought  that  '  vives  impressions '  were 
likely  to  be  created ;  it  was  the  deadness,  the  sameness  of 
life's  daily  ongoings  that  had  hitherto  been  my  bane  ;  my 
blouse-clad  eleves  in  the  boys'  seminary  never  stirred  in  me 
any  '  vives  impressions,'  except  it  might  lie  occasionally 
some  of  anger.  I  broke  from  M.  Pelct,  and  as  I  strode 
down  the  passage  he  followed  me  with  one  of  his  laughs— a 
very  French,  rakish,  mocking  sound. 


THE  PKOFESSOK  83 

Again  I  stood  at  the  neighbouring  door,  and  soon  was 
re-admitted  into  the  cheerful  passage  with  its  clear  dove- 
colour  imitation  marble  walls.  I  followed  the  portress,  and 
descending  a  step,  and  making  a  turn,  I  found  myself  in  a 
sort  of  corridor;  a  side  door  opened,  Mdlle.  Eeuter's  little 
figure,  as  graceful  as  it  was  plump,  appeared.  I  could  now 
see  her  dress  in  full  daylight ;  a  neat,  simple  mousseline- 
laine  gown  fitted  her  compact  round  shape  to  perfection — 
delicate  little  collar  and  manchettes  of  lace,  trim  Parisian 
brodequins  showed  her  neck,  wrists,  and  feet,  to  complete 
advantage ;  but  how  grave  was  her  face  as  she  came 
suddenly  upon  me !  Solicitude  and  business  were  in  her 
eye — on  her  forehead  ;  she  looked  almost  stern.  Her  '  Bon 
jour,  Monsieur,'  was  quite  polite,  but  so  orderly,  so  common- 
place, it  spread  directly  a  cool,  damp  towel  over  my  '  vives 
impressions.'  The  servant  turned  back  when  her  mistress 
appeared,  and  I  walked  slowly  along  the  corridor,  side  by 
side  with  Mdlle.  Eeuter. 

'  Monsieur  will  give  a  lesson  in  the  first  class  to-day,' 
said  she ;  '  dictation  or  reading  will  perhaps  be  the  best 
thing  to  begin  with,  for  those  are  the  easiest  forms  of 
communicating  instruction  in  a  foreign  language ;  and,  at 
the  first,  a  master  naturally  feels  a  little  unsettled.' 

She  was  quite  right,  as  I  had  found  from  experience ;  it 
only  remained  for  me  to  acquiesce.  We  proceeded  now  in 
silence.  The  corridor  terminated  in  a  hall,  large,  lofty,  and 
square  ;  a  glass  door  on  one  side  showed  within  a  long  narrow 
refectory,  with  tables,  an  armoire,  and  two  lamps ;  it  was 
empty ;  large  glass  doors,  in  front,  opened  on  the  play- 
ground and  garden  ;  a  broad  staircase  ascended  spirally  on 
the  opposite  side  ;  the  remaining  wall  showed  a  pair  of 
great  folding-doors,  now  closed,  and  admitting,  doubtless,  to 
the  classes. 

Mdlle.  Eeuter  turned  her  eye  laterally  on  me,  to  ascertain, 
probably,  whether  I  was  collected  enough  to  be  ushered  into 
her  sanctum  sanctorum.  I  suppose  she  judged  me  to  be  in 
a  tolerable  state  of  self-government,  for  she  opened  the  door, 


84  THE  PBOFESSOR 

and  I  followed  her  through.  A  rustling  sound  of  uprising 
greeted  our  entrance ;  without  looking  to  the  right  or  left,  I 
walked  straight  up  the  lane  between  two  sets  of  benches  and 
desks,  and  took  possession  of  the  empty  chair  and  isolated 
desk  raised  on  an  estrade,  of  one  step  high,  so  as  to  command 
one  division  ;  the  other  division  being  under  the  surveillance 
of  a  maitresse  similarly  elevated.  At  the  back  of  the  estrade, 
and  attached  to  a  movable  partition  dividing  this  school- 
room from  another  beyond,  was  a  large  tableau  of  wood 
painted  black  and  varnished  ;  a  thick  crayon  of  white  chalk 
lay  on  my  desk  for  the  convenience  of  elucidating  any 
grammatical  or  verbal  obscurity  which  might  occur  in  my 
lessons  by  writing  it  upon  the  tableau ;  a  wet  sponge 
appeared  beside  the  chalk,  to  enable  me  to  efface  the  marks 
when  they  had  served  the  purpose  intended. 

I  carefully  and  deliberately  made  these  observations 
before  allowing  myself  to  take  one  glance  at  the  benches 
before  me ;  having  handled  the  crayon,  looked  back  at  the 
tableau,  fingered  the  sponge  in  order  to  ascertain  that  it  was 
in  a  right  state  of  moisture,  I  found  myself  cool  enough 
to  admit  of  looking  calmly  up  and  gazing  deliberately 
round  me. 

And  first  I  observed  that  Mdlle.  Reuter  had  already 
glided  away,  she  was  nowhere  visible  ;  a  maitresse  or  teacher, 
the  one  who  occupied  the  corresponding  estrade  to  my  own, 
alone  remained  to  keep  guard  over  me ;  she  was  a  little  in 
the  shade,  and,  with  my  short  sight,  I  could  only  see  that 
she  was  of  a  thin  bony  figure  and  rather  tallowy  complexion, 
and  that  her  attitude,  as  she  sat,  partook  equally  of  listless- 
ness  and  affectation.  More  obvious,  more  prominent,  shone 
on  by  the  full  light  of  the  large  window,  were  the  occupants 
of  the  benches  just  before  me,  of  whom  some  were  girls  of 
fourteen,  fifteen,  sixteen,  some  young  women  from  eighteen 
(as  it  appeared  to  me)  up  to  twenty  ;  the  most  modest  attire, 
the  simplest  fashion  of  wearing  the  hair,  were  apparent  in 
all ;  and  good  features,  ruddy,  blooming  complexions,  large 
and  brilliant  eyes,  forms  full,  even  to  solidity,  seemed  to 


THE   PEOFESSOR  85 

abound.  I  did  not  bear  the  first  view  like  a  stoic  ;  I  was 
dazzled,  my  eyes  fell,  and  in  a  voice  somewhat  too  low  I 
murmured — '  Prenez  vos  cahiers  de  dict6e,  Mesdemoiselles.' 

Not  so  had  I  bid  the  boys  at  Pelet's  take  their  reading- 
books.  A  rustle  followed,  and  an  opening  of  desks ;  behind 
the  lifted  lids  which  momentarily  screened  the  heads  bent 
down  to  search  for  exercise-books,  I  heard  tittering  and 
whispers. 

'  Eulalie,  je  suis  prete  a  pamer  de  rire,'  observed  one. 

'  Comme  il  a  rougi  en  parlant !  ' 

1  Oui,  c'est  un  veritable  blanc-bec.' 

1  Tais-toi,  Hortense — il  nous  6coute.' 

And  now  the  lids  sank  and  the  heads  reappeared  ;  I  had 
marked  three,  the  whisperers,  and  I  did  not  scruple  to  take 
a  very  steady  look  at  them  as  they  emerged  from  their 
temporary  eclipse.  It  is  astonishing  what  ease  and  courage 
their  little  phrases  of  flippancy  had  given  me ;  the  idea  by 
which  I  had  been  awed  was  that  the  youthful  beings  before 
me,  with  their  dark  nun-like  robes  and  softly-braided  hair, 
were  a  kind  of  half-angels.  The  light  titter,  the  giddy 
whisper,  had  already  in  some  measure  relieved  my  mind  of 
that  fond  and  oppressive  fancy. 

The  three  I  allude  to  were  just  in  front,  within  half  a 
yard  of  my  estrade,  and  were  among  the  most  womanly- 
looking  present.  Their  names  I  knew  afterwards,  and  may 
as  well  mention  now ;  they  were  Eulalie,  Hortense,  Caroline. 
Eulalie  was  tall,  and  very  finely  shaped  :  she  was  fair,  and 
her  features  were  those  of  a  Low  Country  Madonna  ;  many 
a  '  figure  de  Vierge  '  have  I  seen  in  Dutch  pictures  exactly 
resembling  hers  ;  there  were  no  angles  in  her  shape  or  in  her 
face,  all  was  curve  and  roundness — neither  thought,  senti- 
ment, nor  passion  disturbed  by  line  or  flush  the  equality  of 
her  pale,  clear  skin  ;  her  noble  bust  heaved  with  her  regular 
breathing,  her  eyes  moved  a  little — by  these  evidences  of  life 
alone  could  I  have  distinguished  her  from  some  large 
handsome  figure  moulded  in  wax.  Hortense  was  of  middle 
size  and  stout,  her  form  was  ungraceful,  her  face  striking, 


86  THE   PKOFESSOR 

more  alive  and  brilliant  than  Eulalie's,  her  hair  was  dark 
brown,  her  complexion  richly  coloured  ;  there  were  frolic 
and  mischief  in  her  eye  :  consistency  and  good  sense  she 
might  possess,  but  none  of  her  features  betokened  those 
qualities. 

Caroline  was  little,  though  evidently  full  grown  ;  raven- 
black  hair,  very  dark  eyes,  absolutely-regular  features,  with 
a  colourless  olive  complexion,  clear  as  to  the  face  and 
sallow  about  the  neck,  formed  in  her  that  assemblage  of 
points  whose  union  many  persons  regard  as  the  perfection 
of  beauty.  How,  with  the  tintless  pallor  of  her  skin  and 
the  classic  straightness  of  her  lineaments,  she  managed  to 
look  sensual,  I  don't  know.  I  think  her  lips  and  eyes 
contrived  the  affair  between  them,  and  the  result  left  no 
uncertainty  on  the  beholder's  mind.  She  was  sensual  now, 
and  in  ten  years'  time  she  would  be  coarse — promise  plain 
was  written  in  her  face  of  much  future  folly. 

If  I  looked  at  these  girls  with  little  scruple,  they  looked 
at  me  with  still  less.  Eulalie  raised  her  unmoved  eye  to 
mine,  and  seemed  to  expect,  passively  but  securely,  an 
impromptu  tribute  to  her  majestic  charms.  Hortense 
regarded  me  boldly,  and  giggled  at  the  same  time,  while  she 
said,  with  an  air  of  impudent  freedom — '  Dictez-nous  quel- 
quechose  de  facile  pour  commencer,  Monsieur.' 

Caroline  shook  her  loose  ringlets  of  abundant  but  some- 
what coarse  hair  over  her  rolling  black  eyes ;  parting  her 
lips,  as  full  as  those  of  a  hot-blooded  Maroon,  she  showed 
her  well-set  teeth  sparkling  between  them,  and  treated  me 
at  the  same  time  to  a  smile  'de  sa  facon.'  Beautiful  as 
Pauline  Borghese,  she  looked  at  the  moment  scarcely  purer 
than  Lucrece  de  Borgia.  Caroline  was  of  noble  family.  I 
heard  her  lady-mother's  character  afterwards,  and  then  I 
ceased  to  wonder  at  the  precocious  accomplishments  of  the 
daughter.  These  three,  I  at  once  saw,  deemed  themselves 
the  queens  of  the  school,  and  conceived  that  by  their 
splendour  they  threw  all  the  rest  into  the  shade.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  they  had  thus  revealed  to  me  their 


THE  PKOFESSOR  87 

characters,  and  in  less  than  five  minutes  I  had  buckled  on  a 
breast-plate  of  steelly  indifference,  and  let  down  a  visor 
of  impassible  austerity. 

'  Take  your  pens  and  commence  writing,'  said  I,  in  as 
dry  and  trite  a  voice  as  if  I  had  been  addressing  only  Jules 
Vanderkelkov  and  Co. 

The  dieted  now  commenced.  My  three  belles  interrupted 
me  perpetually  with  little  silly  questions  and  uncalled-for 
remarks,  to  some  of  which  I  made  no  answer,  and  to  others 
replied  very  quietly  and  briefly. 

' Comment  dit-on  point  et  virgule  en  Anglais,  Monsieur? ' 

1  Semi-colon,  Mademoiselle.' 

'  Semi-collong  ?     Ah,  comme  c'est  drole  ! '  (giggle). 

'  J'ai  une  si  mauvaise  plume — impossible  d'ecrire! ' 

1  Mais,  Monsieur — je  ne  sais  pas  suivre — vous  allez  si 
vite.' 

1  Je  n'ai  rien  compris,  moi !  ' 

Here  a  general  murmur  arose,  and  the  teacher,  opening 
her  lips  for  the  first  time,  ejaculated — '  Silence,  Mes- 
demoiselles  ! ' 

No  silence  followed — on  the  contrary,  the  three  ladies  in 
front  began  to  talk  more  loudly. 

'  C'est  si  difficile,  1'Anglais  ! ' 

1  Je  deteste  la  dictee.' 

'  Quel  ennui  d'ecrire  quelquechose  que  Ton  ne  comprend 
pas ! 

Some  of  those  behind  laughed :  a  degree  of  confusion 
began  to  pervade  the  class ;  it  was  necessary  to  take  prompt 
measures. 

'  Donnez-moi  votre  cahier,'  said  I  to  Eulalie  in  an  abrupt 
tone  ;  and  bending  over,  I  took  it  before  she  had  time  to  give  it. 

'  Et  vous,  Mademoiselle — donnez-moi  le  votre,'  continued 
I,  more  mildly,  addressing  a  little  pale,  plain-looking  girl 
who  sat  in  the  first  row  of  the  other  division,  and  whom  I  had 
remarked  as  being  at  once  the  ugliest  and  the  most  attentive 
in  the  room ;  she  rose  up,  walked  over  to  me,  and  delivered 
her  book  with  a  grave,  modest  curtsey.  I  glanced  over  the 


88  THE 

two  dictations  ;  Eulalie's  was  slurred,  blotted,  and  full  of 
silly  mistakes — Sylvie's  (such  was  the  name  of  the  ugly  little 
girl)  was  clearly  written  ;  it  contained  no  error  against 
sense,  and  but  few  faults  of  orthography.  I  coolly  read 
aloud  both  exercises,  marking  the  faults — then  I  looked  at 
Eulalie : 

'  C'est  honteux ! '  said  I,  and  I  deliberately  tore  her 
dictation  in  four  parts,  and  presented  her  with  the  frag- 
ments. I  returned  Sylvie  her  book  with  a  smile,  saying — 
'  C'est  bien — je  suis  content  de  vous.' 

Sylvie  looked  calmly  pleased,  Eulalie  swelled  like  an 
incensed  turkey,  but  the  mutiny  was  quelled  :  the  conceited 
coquetry  and  futile  flirtation  of  the  first  bench  were  exchanged 
for  a  taciturn  sullenness,  much  more  convenient  to  me,  and 
the  rest  of  my  lesson  passed  without  interruption. 

A  bell  clanging  out  in  the  yard  announced  the  moment 
for  the  cessation  of  school  labours.  I  heard  our  own  bell  at 
the  same  time,  and  that  of  a  certain  public  college  immedi- 
ately after.  Order  dissolved  instantly ;  up  started  every 
pupil ;  I  hastened  to  seize  my  hat,  bow  to  the  maitresse,  and 
quit  the  room  before  the  tide  of  externals  should  pour  from 
the  inner  class,  where  I  knew  near  a  hundred  were  prisoned, 
and  whose  rising  tumult  I  already  heard. 

I  had  scarcely  crossed  the  hall  and  gained  the  corridor, 
when  Mdlle.  Keutcr  came  again  upon  me. 

'  Step  in  here  a  moment,'  said  she,  and  she  held  open  the 
door  of  the  side  room  from  whence  she  had  issued  on  my 
arrival ;  it  was  a  sallc  d  manger,  as  appeared  from  the  buffet 
and  the  armoire  vitr6e,  filled  with  glass  and  china,  which 
formed  part  of  its  furniture.  Ere  she  had  closed  the  door  on 
me  and  herself,  the  corridor  was  already  filled  with  day-pupils, 
tearing  down  their  cloaks,  bonnets,  and  cabas  from  tho 
wooden  pegs  on  which  they  were  suspended  ;  the  shrill  voice 
of  a  maitresse  was  hoard  at  intervals  vainly  endeavouring  to 
enforce  some  sort  of  order;  vainly,  I  say:  discipline  there 
was  none  in  these  rough  ranks,  and  yet  this  was  considered 
one  of  the  best-conducted  schools  in  Brussels. 


PEOtfESSOR  8$ 

'  Well,  you  have  given  your  first  lesson,'  began  Mdlle. 
Eeuter  in  the  most  calm,  equable  voice,  as  though  quite 
unconscious  of  the  chaos  from  which  we  were  separated  only 
by  a  single  wall. 

'  Were  you  satisfied  with  your  pupils,  or  did  any  circum- 
stance in  their  conduct  give  you  cause  for  complaint? 
Conceal  nothing  from  me,  repose  in  me  entire  confidence.' 

Happily,  I  felt  in  myself  complete  power  to  manage  my 
pupils  without  aid ;  the  enchantment,  the  golden  haze  which 
had  dazzled  my  perspicuity  at  first,  had  been  a  good  deal 
dissipated.  I  cannot  say  I  was  chagrined  or  downcast  by 
the  contrast  which  the  reality  of  a  pensionnat  de  demoiselles 
presented  to  my  vague  ideal  of  the  same  community  ;  I  was 
only  enlightened  and  amused ;  consequently,  I  felt  in  no 
disposition  to  complain  to  Mdlle.  Eeuter,  and  I  received  her 
considerate  invitation  to  confidence  with  a  smile. 

'  A  thousand  thanks,  Mademoiselle,  all  has  gone  very 
smoothly.' 

She  looked  more  than  doubtful. 

'  Et  les  trois  demoiselles  du  premier  bane  ? '  said  she. 

'  Ah !  tout  va  au  mieux  ! '  was  my  answer,  and  Mdlle. 
Eeuter  ceased  to  question  me ;  but  her  eye — not  large,  not 
brilliant,  not  melting,  or  kindling,  but  astute,  penetrating, 
practical,  showed  she  was  even  with  me ;  it  let  out  a 
momentary  gleam,  which  said  plainly,  '  Be  as  close  as  you 
like,  I  am  not  dependent  on  your  candour ;  what  you  would 
conceal  I  already  know.' 

By  a  transition  so  quiet  as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible,  the 
directress's  manner  changed ;  the  anxious  business  air  passed 
from  her  face,  and  she  began  chatting  about  the  weather  and 
the  town,  and  asking  in  neighbourly  wise  after  M.  and 
Madame  Pelet.  I  answered  all  her  little  questions ;  she 
prolonged  her  talk,  I  went  on  following  its  many  little 
windings ;  she  sat  so  long,  said  so  much,  varied  so  often  the 
topics  of  discourse,  that  it  was  not  difficult  to  perceive  she 
had  a  particular  aim  in  thus  detaining  me.  Her  mere  words 
could  have  afforded  no  clue  to  this  aim,  but  her  countenance 


90  THE  PBOFESSOR 

aided ;  while  her  lips  uttered  only  affable  commonplaces, 
her  eyes  reverted  continually  to  my  face.  Her  glances  were 
not  given  in  full,  but  out  of  the  corners,  so  quietly,  so 
stealthily,  yet  I  think  I  lost  not  one.  I  watched  her  as 
keenly  as  she  watched  me ;  I  perceived  soon  that  she  was 
feeling  after  my  real  character  ;  she  was  searching  for  salient 
points,  and  weak  points,  and  eccentric  points ;  she  was 
applying  now  this  test,  now  that,  hoping  in  the  end  to  find 
some  chink,  some  niche,  where  she  could  put  in  her  little 
firm  foot  and  stand  upon  my  neck — mistress  of  my  nature. 
Do  not  mistake  me,  reader,  it  was  no  amorous  influence  she 
wished  to  gain — at  that  time  it  was  only  the  power  of  the 
politician  to  which  she  aspired ;  I  was  now  installed  as  a 
professor  in  her  establishment,  and  she  wanted  to  know 
where  her  mind  was  superior  to  mine — by  what  feeling  or 
opinion  she  could  lead  me. 

I  enjoyed  the  game  much,  and  did  not  hasten  its  conclu- 
sion ;  sometimes  I  gave  her  hopes,  beginning  a  sentence 
rather  weakly,  when  her  shrewd  eye  would  light  up — she 
thought  she  had  me  ;  having  led  her  a  little  way,  I  delighted 
to  turn  round  and  finish  with  sound,  hard  sense,  whereat 
her  countenance  would  fall.  At  last  a  servant  entered  to 
announce  dinner  ;  the  conflict  being  thus  necessarily  termi- 
nated, we  parted  without  having  gained  any  advantage  on 
either  side :  Mdlle.  Reuter  had  not  even  given  me  an 
opportunity  of  attacking  her  with  feeling,  and  I  had  managed 
to  baffle  her  little  schemes  of  craft.  It  was  a  regular  drawn 
battle.  I  again  held  out  my  hand  when  I  left  the  room,  she 
gave  me  hers ;  it  was  a  small  and  white  hand,  but  how  cool  ! 
I  met  her  eye  too  in  full— obliging  her  to  give  me  a  straight- 
forward look ;  this  last  test  went  against  me :  it  left  her  as 
it  found  her — moderate,  temperate,  tranquil ;  me  it  dis- 
appointed. 

'  I  am  growing  wiser,'  thought  I,  as  I  walked  back  to 
M.  Pelet's.  '  Look  at  this  little  woman  ;  is  she  like  the 
women  of  novelists  and  romancers  ?  To  read  of  female 
character  as  depicted  in  Poetry  and  Fiction,  one  would  think 


THE   PROFESSOR  91 

it  was  made  up  of  sentiment,  either  for  good  or  bad — here  is 
a  specimen,  and  a  most  sensible  and  respectable  specimen, 
too,  whose  staple  ingredient  is  abstract  reason.  No  Talley- 
rand was  ever  more  passionless  than  Zoraide  Keuter ! '  So 
I  thought  then ;  I  found  afterwards  that  blunt  susceptibilities 
are  very  consistent  with  strong  propensities. 


CHAPTER  XI 

I  HAD  indeed  had  a  very  long  talk  with  the  crafty  little 
politician,  and  on  regaining  my  quarters,  I  found  that  dinner 
was  half  over.  To  be  late  at  meals  was  against  a  standing 
rule  of  the  establishment,  and  had  it  been  one  of  the  Flemish 
ushers  who  thus  entered  after  the  removal  of  the  soup  and 
the  commencement  of  the  first  course,  M.  Pelet  would 
probably  have  greeted  him  with  a  public  rebuke,  and  would 
certainly  have  mulcted  him  both  of  soup  and  fish ;  as  it  was, 
that  polite  though  partial  gentleman  only  shook  his  head, 
and  as  I  took  my  place,  unrolled  my  napkin,  and  said  my 
heretical  grace  to  myself,  he  civilly  despatched  a  servant  to 
the  kitchen,  to  bring  me  a  plate  of  '  pur6e  aux  carottes  '  (for 
this  was  a  maigre-day),  and  before  sending  away  the  first 
course,  reserved  for  me  a  portion  of  the  stock-fish  of  which 
it  consisted.  Dinner  being  over,  the  boys  rushed  out  for 
their  evening  play  ;  Kint  and  Vandam  (the  two  ushers)  of 
course  followed  them.  Poor  fellows  !  if  they  had  not  looked 
so  very  heavy,  so  very  soulless,  so  very  indifferent  to  all 
tilings  in  heaven  above  or  in  the  earth  beneath,  I  could  have 
pitied  them  greatly  for  the  obligation  they  were  under  to 
trail  after  those  rough  lads  everywhere  and  at  all  times  ; 
even  as  it  was,  I  felt  disposed  to  scout  myself  as  a  privileged 
prig  when  I  turned  to  ascend  to  my  chamber,  sure  to  find 
there,  if  not  enjoyment,  at  least  liberty  ;  but  this  evening  (as 
had  often  happened  before)  I  was  to  be  still  further  dis- 
tinguished. 

'  Eh    bien,  mauvais   sujet ! '    said  the  voice  of    M.  Pelet 
behind  me,  as  I  set  my  foot  on  the  first  step  of  the  stair,  '  ou. 


THE   PROFESSOR  93 

allez-vous  ?  Venez  a  la  salle  a  manger,  que  je  vous  gronde 
un  peu.' 

'  I  beg  pardon,  Monsieur,'  said  I,  as  I  followed  him  to  his 
private  sitting-room,  '  for  having  returned  so  late — it  was 
not  my  fault.' 

'  That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know,'  rejoined  M.  Pelet,  as 
he  ushered  me  into  the  comfortable  parlour  with  a  good 
wood-fire — for  the  stove  had  now  been  removed  for  the 
season.  Having  rung  the  bell,  he  ordered  '  Coffee  for  two,' 
and  presently  he  and  I  were  seated,  almost  in  English 
comfort,  one  on  each  side  of  the  hearth,  a  little  round  table 
between  us,  with  a  coffee-pot,  a  sugar-basin,  and  two  large 
white  china  cups.  While  M.  Pelet  employed  himself  in 
choosing  a  cigar  from  a  box,  my  thoughts  reverted  to  the  two 
outcast  ushers,  whose  voices  I  could  hear  even  now  crying 
hoarsely  for  order  in  the  playground. 

'  C'est  une  grande  responsabilit6  que  la  surveillance,' 
observed  I. 

'  Plait-il  ?  '  said  M.  Pelet. 

I  remarked  that  I  thought  Messieurs  Vandam  and  Kint 
must  sometimes  be  a  little  fatigued  with  their  labours. 

'  Des  b^tes  de  somme,—  des  betes  de  somme,'  murmured 
scornfully  the  director.  Meantime  I  offered  him  his  cup  of 
coffee. 

'  Servez-vous,  mon  ganjon,'  said  he  blandly,  when  I  had 
put  a  couple  of  huge  lumps  of  continental  sugar  into  his  cup. 
'  And  now  tell  me  why  you  stayed  so  long  at  Mdlle.  Renter's. 
I  know  that  lessons  conclude,  in  her  establishment  as 
in  mine,  at  four  o'clock,  and  when  you  returned  it  was 
past  live.' 

'  Mademoiselle  wished  to  speak  with  me,  Monsiem'.' 

'  Indeed  !  on  what  subject,  if  one  may  ask?  ' 

'  Mademoiselle  talked  about  nothing,  Monsieur.' 

'  A  fertile  topic  !  And  did  she  discourse  thereon  in  the 
schoolroom,  before  the  pupils?' 

'  No  ;  like  you,  Monsieur,  she  asked  me  to  walk  into  her 
parlour.' 


94  THE   PBOFESSOB 

'  And  Madame  Beuter — the  old  duenna — my  mother's 
gossip,  was  there,  of  course  ? ' 

'  No,  Monsieur ;  I  had  the  honour  of  being  quite  alone 
with  Mademoiselle.' 

'  C'est  joli — cela,'  observed  M.  Pelet,  and  he  smiled  and 
looked  into  the  fire. 

'  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense,'  murmured  I,  significantly. 

1  Je  connais  un  peu  ma  petite  voisine,  voyez-vous.' 

'  In  that  case,  Monsieur  will  be  able  to  aid  me  in  finding 
out  what  was  Mademoiselle's  reason  for  making  me  sit  before 
her  sofa  one  mortal  hour,  listening  to  the  most  copious  and 
fluent  dissertation  on  the  merest  frivolities.' 

'  She  was  sounding  your  character.' 

'  I  thought  so,  Monsieur.' 

'  Did  she  find  out  your  weak  point  ?  ' 

'  What  is  my  weak  point  ?  ' 

'  Why,  the  sentimental.  Any  woman  sinking  her  shaft 
deep  enough,  will  at  last  reach  a  fathomless  spring  of  sensi- 
bility in  thy  breast,  Crimsworth.' 

I  felt  the  blood  stir  about  my  heart  and  rise  warm  to  my 
cheek. 

'  Some  women  might,  Monsieur.' 

1  Is  Mdlle.  Beuter  of  the  number  ?  Come,  speak  frankly, 
mon  fils  ;  elle  est  encore  jeune,  plus  ag6e  que  toi  peut-6tre, 
mais  juste  assez  pour  unir  la  tendresse  d'une  petite  maman 
a  1'amour  d'une  6pouse  devou6e ;  n'est-ce  pas  que  cela  t'irait 
supe'rieurement  ? ' 

'  No,  Monsieur ;  I  should  like  my  wife  to  be  my  wife,  and 
not  half  my  mother.' 

'  She  is  then  a  little  too  old  for  you  ?  ' 

'  No,  Monsieur,  not  a  day  too  old  if  she  suited  me  in 
other  things.' 

'  In  what  does  she  not  suit  you,  William  ?  She  is 
personally  agreeable,  is  she  not  ?  ' 

'  Very  ;  her  hair  and  complexion  are  just  what  I  admire  ; 
and  her  turn  of  form,  though  quite  Belgian,  is  full  of  grace.' 

'  Bravo  !  and  her  face  V  her  features  ?  How  do  you  like 
them  ?  ' 


THE  PROFESSOR  95 

1 A  little  harsh,  especially  her  mouth.' 

'  Ah,  yes !  her  mouth,'  said  M.  Pelet,  and  he  chuckled 
inwardly.  '  There  is  character  about  her  mouth — firmness 
— but  she  has  a  very  pleasant  smile  ;  don't  you  think  so  ? ' 

'  Rather  crafty." 

'  True,  but  that  expression  of  craft  is  owing  to  her  eye- 
brows ;  have  you  remarked  her  eyebrows  ? ' 

I  answered  that  I  had  not. 

'  You  have  not  seen  her  looking  down  then  ?  '  said  he. 

'No.' 

'  It  is  a  treat,  notwithstanding.  Observe  her  when  she 
has  some  knitting,  or  some  other  woman's  work  in  hand, 
and  sits  the  image  of  peace,  calmly  intent  on  her  needles 
and  her  silk,  some  discussion  meantime  going  on  around  her, 
in  the  course  of  which  peculiarities  of  character  are  being 
developed,  or  important  interests  canvassed ;  she  takes  no 
part  in  it ;  her  humble,  feminine  mind  is  wholly  with  her 
knitting  ;  none  of  her  features  move  ;  she  neither  presumes 
to  smile  approval,  nor  frown  disapprobation ;  her  little  hands 
assiduously  ply  their  unpretending  task ;  if  she  can  only  get 
this  purse  finished,  or  this  bonnet-grec  completed,  it  is 
enough  for  her.  If  gentlemen  approach  her  chair,  a  deeper 
quiescence,  a  meeker  modesty  settles  on  her  features,  and 
clothes  her  general  mien  ;  observe  then  her  eyebrows,  et 
dites-moi  s'il  n'y  a  pas  du  chat  dans  1'un  et  du  renard  dans 
1'autre.' 

'  I  will  take  careful  notice  the  first  opportunity,'  said  I. 

'  And  then,'  continued  M.  Pelet,  '  the  eyelid  will  flicker, 
the  light-coloured  lashes  be  lifted  a  second,  and  a  blue  eye, 
glancing  out  from  under  the  screen,  will  take  its  brief,  sly, 
searching  survey,  and  retreat  again.' 

I  smiled,  and  so  did  Pelet,  and  after  a  few  minutes' 
silence,  I  asked  : — '  Will  she  ever  marry,  do  you  think  ?  ' 

'  Marry  !  Will  birds  pair  ?  Of  course  it  is  both  her 
intention  and  resolution  to  marry  when  she  finds  a  suitable 
match,  and  no  one  is  better  aware  than  herself  of  the  sort  of 
impression  she  is  capable  of  producing  ;  no  one  likes  better 


96  THE  PEOFESSOB 

to  captivate  in  a  quiet  way.  I  am  mistaken  if  she  will  not 
yet  leave  the  print  of  her  stealing  steps  on  thy  heart, 
Crimsworth.' 

'  Of  her  steps  ?  Confound  it,  no !  My  heart  is  not  a 
plank  to  be  walked  on.' 

'  But  the  soft  touch  of  a  patte  de  velours  will  do  it  no 
harm.' 

'  She  offers  me  no  patte  de  velours  ;  she  is  all  form  and 
reserve  with  me.' 

'  That  to  begin  with  :  let  respect  be  the  foundation, 
affection  the  first  floor,  love  the  superstructure ;  Mdlle. 
Keuter  is  a  skilful  architect.' 

'  And  interest,  M.  Pelet — interest  ?  Will  not  Mademoiselle 
consider  that  point  ?•' 

'  Yes,  yes,  no  doubt ;  it  will  be  the  cement  between  every 
stone.  And  now  we  have  discussed  the  directress,  what  of  the 
pupils?  N'y-a-t-il  pas  de  belles  etudes  parmi  ces  jeunes  tetes  ? ' 

'  Studies  of  character  ?  Yes  ;  curious  ones,  at  least,  1 
imagine  ;  but  one  cannot  divine  much  from  a  first  interview.' 

'  Ah,  you  affect  discretion  ;  but  tell  me  now,  were  you 
not  a  little  abashed  before  those  blooming  young  creatures  ?  ' 

1  At  first,  yes  ;  but  I  rallied  and  got  through  with  all  due 
sang-froid.' 

'  I  don't  believe  you.' 

'  It  is  true,  notwithstanding.  At  first  I  thought  them 
angels,  but  they  did  not  leave  me  long  under  that  delusion  ; 
three  of  the  eldest  and  handsomest  undertook  the  task  of 
setting  me  right,  and  they  managed  so  cleverly  that  in  five 
minutes  I  knew  them,  at  least,  for  what  they  were — three 
arrant  coquettes.' 

'  Je  les  connais  ! '  exclaimed  M.  Pelet.  '  Elles  sont 
toujours  au  premier  rang  a  I'e'glise  et  a  la  promenade  ;  une 
blonde  superbe,  une  jolie  espiegle,  une  belle  brune.' 

'  Exactly.' 

'  Lovely  creatures  all  of  them — heads  for  artists  ;  what  a 
group  they  would  make,  taken  together!  Eulalie'(I  know 
their  names),  with  her  smooth  braided  hair  and  calm  ivory 


THE   PEOFESSOR  97 

brow.  Hortense,  with  her  rich  chestnut  locks  so  luxuriantly 
knotted,  plaited,  twisted,  as  if  she  did  not  know  how  to  dis- 
pose of  all  their  abundance,  with  her  vermilion  lips,  damask 
cheek,  and  roguish  laughing  eye.  And  Caroline  de  Element ! 
Ah,  there  is  beauty  !  beauty  in  perfection.  What  a  cloud  of 
sable  curls  about  the  face  of  a  houri !  What  fascinating 
lips !  What  glorious  black  eyes !  Your  Byron  would  have 
worshipped  her,  and  you — you  cold,  frigid  islander! — you 
played  the  austere,  the  insensible  in  the  presence  of  an 
Aphrodite  so  exquisite  ? ' 

I  might  have  laughed  at  the  director's  enthusiasm  had  I 
believed  it  real,  but  there  was  something  in  his  tone  which 
indicated  got-up  raptures.  I  felt  he  was  only  affecting 
fervour  in  order  to  put  me  off  my  guard,  to  induce  me  to 
come  out  in  return,  so  I  scarcely  even  smiled.  He  went  on  : 
— '  Confess,  W7illiam,  do  not  the  mere  good  looks  of  Zora'ide 
Reuter  appear  dowdyish  and  commonplace  compared  with 
the  splendid  charms  of  some  of  her  pupils  ?  ' 

The  question  discomposed  me,  but  I  now  felt  plainly  that 
my  principal  was  endeavouring  (for  reasons  best  known  to 
himself — at  that  time  I  could  not  fathom  them)  to  excite 
ideas  and  wishes  in  my  mind  alien  to  what  was  right  and 
honourable.  The  iniquity  of  the  instigation  proved  its  anti- 
dote, and  when  he  further  added  :  '  Each  of  those  three 
beautiful  girls  will  have  a  handsome  fortune  ;  and  with  a 
little  address,  a  gentlemanlike,  intelligent  young  fellow  like 
you  might  make  himself  master  of  the  hand,  heart,  and 
purse  of  any  one  of  the  trio.' 

I  replied  by  a  look  and  an  interrogative  '  Monsieur  ? ' 
which  startled  him. 

He  laughed  a  forced  laugh,  affirmed  that  he  had  only  been 
joking,  and  demanded  whether  I  could  possibly  have  thought 
him  in  earnest.  Just  then  the  bell  rang  ;  the  play-hour  was 
over ;  it  was  an  evening  on  which  M.  Pelet  was  accustomed 
to  read  passages  from  the  drama  and  the  belles  lettres  to  his 
pupils.  He  did  not  wait  for  my  answer,  but  rising,  left  the 
room,  humming  as  he  went  some  gay  strain  of  Beranger's. 

H 


CHAPTEE  XII 

DAILY,  as  I  continued  my  attendance  at  the  seminary  of 
Mdlle.  Keuter,  did  I  find  fresh  occasions  to  compare  the  ideal 
with  the  real.  What  had  I  known  of  female  character 
previously  to  my  arrival  at  Brussels  ?  Precious  little.  And 
what  was  my  notion  of  it  ?  Something  vague,  slight,  gauzy, 
glittering ;  now  when  I  came  in  contact,  with  it  I  found  it  to 
be  a  palpable  substance  enough ;  very  hard  too  sometimes, 
and  often  heavy ;  there  was  metal  in  it,  both  lead  and  iron. 

Let  the  idealists,  the  dreamers  about  earthly  angels  and 
human  flowers,  just  look  here  while  I  open  my  portfolio  and 
show  them  a  sketch  or  two,  pencilled  after  nature.  I  took 
these  sketches  in  the  second-class  schoolroom  of  Mdlle. 
Reuter's  establishment,  where  about  a  hundred  specimens  of 
the  genus  '  jeune  fille '  collected  together,  offered  a  fertile 
variety  of  subject.  A  miscellaneous  assortment  they  werei 
differing  both  in  caste  and  country ;  as  I  sat  on  my  estrade 
and  glanced  over  the  long  range  of  desks,  I  had  under  my 
eye  French,  English,  Belgians,  Austrians,  and  Prussians. 
The  majority  belonged  to  the  class  bourgeois  :  but  there  were 
many  countesses,  there  were  the  daughters  of  two  generals 
and  of  several  colonels,  captains,  and  government  employes ; 
these  ladies  sat  side  by  side  with  young  females  destined  to 
be  demoiselles  de  magasins,  and  with  some  Flamandes, 
genuine  aborigines  of  the  country.  In  dress  all  were  nearly 
similar,  and  in  manners  there  was  small  difference  ;  excep- 
tions there  were  to  the  general  rule,  but  the  majority  gave  the 
tone  to  the  establishment,  and  that  tone  was  rough,  boister- 
ous, marked  by  a  point-blank  disregard  of  all  forbearance 


THE  PROFESSOR  99 

towards  each  other  or  their  teachers ;  an  eager  pursuit  by 
each  individual  of  her  own  interest  and  convenience ;  and  a 
coarse  indifference  to  the  interest  and  convenience  of  every 
one  else.  Most  of  them  could  lie  with  audacity  when  it 
appeared  advantageous  to  do  so.  All  understood  the  art  of 
speaking  fair  when  a  point  was  to  be  gained,  and  could  with 
consummate  skill  and  at  a  moment's  notice  turn  the  cold 
shoulder  the  instant  civility  ceased  to  be  profitable.  Very 
little  open  quarrelling  ever  took  place  amongst  them  ;  but 
backbiting  and  talebearing  were  universal.  Close  friendships 
were  forbidden  by  the  rules  of  the  school,  and  no  one  girl 
seemed  to  cultivate  more  regard  for  another  than  was 
just  necessary  to  secure  a  companion  when  solitude  would 
have  been  irksome.  They  were  each  and  all  supposed  to 
have  been  reared  in  utter  unconsciousness  of  vice.  The 
precautions  used  to  keep  them  ignorant,  if  not  innocent,  were 
innumerable.  How  was  it,  then,  that  scarcely  one  of  those 
girls  having  attained  the  age  of  fourteen  could  look  a  man  in 
the  face  with  modesty  and  propriety  ?  An  air  of  bold,  im- 
pudent flirtation,  or  a  loose,  silly  leer,  was  sure  to  answer 
the  most  ordinary  glance  from  a  masculine  eye.  I  know 
nothing  of  the  arcana  of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  and  I 
am  not  a  bigot  in  matters  of  theology,  but  I  suspect  the  root 
of  this  precocious  impurity,  so  obvious,  so  general  in  Popish 
countries,  is  to  be  found  in  the  discipline,  if  not  the  doctrines 
of  the  Church  of  Rome.  I  record  what  I  have  seen  :  these 
girls  belonged  to  what  are  called  the  respectable  ranks  of 
society ;  they  had  all  been  carefully  brought  up,  yet  was  the 
mass  of  them  mentally  depraved.  So  much  for  the  general 
view  :  now  for  one  or  two  selected  specimens. 

The  first  picture  is  a  full  length  of  Aurelia  Koslow,  a 
German  Fraulein,  or  rather  a  half-breed  between  German 
and  Russian.  She  is  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  has  been 
sent  to  Brussels  to  finish  her  education ;  she  is  of  middle 
size,  stiffly  made,  body  long,  legs  short,  bust  much  developed 
but  not  compactly  moulded,  waist  disproportionately  com- 
pressed by  an  inhumanly  braced  corset,  dress  cavefully 


100  THE  PKOFESSOR 

arranged,  large  feet  tortured  into  small  bottines,  head  small, 
hair  smoothed,  braided,  oiled,  and  gummed  to  perfection  ; 
very  low  forehead,  very  diminutive  and  vindictive  grey  eyes, 
boruewhat  Tartar  features,  rather  flat  nose,  rather  high  cheek- 
bones, yet  the  ensemble  not  positively  ugly ;  tolerably  good 
complexion.  So  much  for  person.  As  to  mind,  deplorably 
ignorant  and  ill-informed ;  incapable  of  writing  or  speaking 
correctly  even  German,  her  native  tongue,  a  dunce  in  French, 
and  her  attempts  at  learning  English  a  mere  farce ;  yet  she 
has  been  at  school  twelve  years ;  but  as  she  invariably  gets 
her  exercises,  of  every  description,  done  by  a  fellow-pupil, 
and  reads  her  lessons  off  a  book  concealed  in  her  lap,  it  is  not 
wonderful  that  her  progress  has  been  so  snail-like.  I  do  not 
know  what  Aurelia's  daily  habits  of  life  are,  because  I  have 
not  the  opportunity  of  observing  her  at  all  times  ;  but  from 
what  I  see  of  the  state  of  her  desk,  books,  and  papers,  I 
should  say  she  is  slovenly  and  even  dirty ;  her  outward 
dress,  as  I  have  said,  is  well  attended  to,  but  in  passing 
behind  her  bench,  I  have  remarked  that  her  neck  is  grey  for 
want  of  washing,  and  her  hair,  so  glossy  with  gum  and 
grease,  is  not  such  as  one  feels  tempted  to  pass  the  hand 
over,  much  less  to  run  the  fingers  through.  Aurelia's 
conduct  in  class,  at  least  when  I  am  present,  is  something 
extraordinary,  considered  as  an  index  of  girlish  innocence. 
The  moment  I  enter  the  room,  she  nudges  her  next  neigh- 
bour and  indulges  in  a  half-suppressed  laugh.  As  I 
take  my  seat  on  the  estrade,  she  fixes  her  eye  on  me ;  she 
seems  resolved  to  attract,  and,  if  possible,  monopolise  my 
notice  :  to  this  end  she  launches  at  me  all  sorts  of  looks, 
languishing,  provoking,  leering,  laughing.  As  I  am  found 
quite  proof  against  this  sort  of  artillery — for  we  scorn,  what, 
unasked,  is  lavishly  offered — she  has  recourse  to  the  expedient 
of  making  noises;  sometimes  she  sighs,  sometimes  groans,  some- 
times utters  inarticulate  sounds,  for  which  language  has  no 
name.  If,  in  walking  up  the  school)  oom,  I  pass  near  her,  she 
puts  out  her  foot  that  it  may  touch  mine  ;  if  I  do  not  happen 
to  observe  the  manoeuvre,  and  my  boot  comes  in  contact  with 


THE   PROFESSOR  101 

her  brodequin,  she  affects  to  fall  into  convulsions  ot  sup- 
pressed laughter ;  if  I  notice  the  snare  and  avoid  it,  she 
expresses  her  mortification  in  sullen  muttering,  where  I  hear 
myself  abused  in  bad  French,  pronounced  with  an  intolerable 
Low  German  accent. 

Not  far  from  Mdlle.  Koslow  sits  another  young  lady,  by 
name  Adele  Dronsart :  this  is  a  Belgian,  rather  low  of 
stature,  in  form  heavy,  with  broad  waist,  short  neck  and 
limbs,  good  red  and  white  complexion,  features  well  chiselled 
and  regular,  well-cut  eyes  of  a  clear  brown  colour,  light 
brown  hair,  good  teeth,  age  not  much  above  fifteen,  but  as  full- 
grown  as  a  stout  young  Englishwoman  of  twenty.  This 
portrait  gives  the  idea  of  a  somewhat  dumpy  but  good-looking 
damsel,  does  it  not  ?  Well,  when  I  looked  along  the  row  of 
young  heads,  my  eye  generally  stopped  at  this  of  Adele's  ;  her 
gaze  was  ever  waiting  for  mine,  and  it  frequently  succeeded 
in  arresting  it.  She  was  an  unnatural-looking  being — so 
young,  fresh,  blooming,  yet  so  Gorgon-like.  Suspicion, 
sullen  ill-temper  were  on  her  forehead,  vicious  propensities 
in  her  eye,  envy  and  panther-like  deceit  about  her  mouth. 
In  general  she  sat  very  still ;  her  massive  shape  looked  as  if 
it  could  not  bend  much,  nor  did  her  large  head — so  broad  at 
the  base,  so  narrow  towards  the  top — seem  made  to  turn 
readily  on  her  short  neck.  She  had  but  two  varieties  of  ex- 
pression ;  the  prevalent  one  a  forbidding,  dissatisfied  scowl, 
varied  sometimes  by  a  most  pernicious  and  perfidious  smile. 
She  was  shunned  by  her  fellow-pupils,  for,  bad  as  many  of 
them  were,  few  were  as  bad  as  she. 

Aurelia  and  Adele  were  in  the  first  division  of  the  second 
class  ;  the  second  division  was  headed  by  a  pensionnaire 
named  Juanna  Trista.  This  girl  was  of  mixed  Belgian  and 
Spanish  origin  ;  her  Flemish  mother  was  dead,  her  Cata- 
lonian  father  was  a  merchant  residing  in  the  -  -  Isles, 
where  Juanna  had  been  born  and  whence  she  was  sent  to 
Europe  to  be  educated.  I  wonder  that  any  one,  looking  at 
that  girl's  head  and  countenance,  would  have  received  her 
under  their  roof.  She  had  precisely  the  same  shape  of  skull 


102  THE  PKOFESSOK 

as  Pope  Alexander  the  Sixth :  her  organs  of  benevolence, 
veneration,  conscientiousness,  adhesiveness,  were  singularly 
small,  those  of  self-esteem,  firmness,  destructiveness,  com- 
bativeness,  preposterously  large  ;  her  head  sloped  up  in  the 
penthouse  shape,  was  contracted  about  the  forehead,  and 
prominent  behind  ;  she  had  rather  good,  though  large  and 
marked  features  ;  her  temperament  was  fibrous  and  bilious, 
her  complexion  pale  and  dark,  hair  and  eyes  black,  form 
angular  and  rigid  but  proportionate,  age  fifteen. 

Juanna  was  not  very  thin,  but  she  had  a  gaunt  visage, 
and  her  '  regard  '  was  fierce  and  hungry  ;  narrow  as  was  her 
brow,  it  presented  space  enough  for  the  legible  graving  of 
two  words,  Mutiny  and  Hate  ;  in  some  one  of  her  other 
lineaments — I  think  the  eye — cowardice  had  also  its 
distinct  cipher.  Mdlle.  Trista  thought  fit  to  trouble  my  first 
lessons  with  a  coarse  work-day  sort  of  turbulence  ;  she  made 
noises  with  her  mouth  like  a  horse,  she  ejected  her  saliva, 
she  uttered  brutal  expressions  ;  behind  and  below  her  were 
seated  a  band  of  very  vulgar,  inferior-looking  Flamandes, 
including  two  or  three  examples  of  that  deformity  of  person 
and  imbecility  of  intellect  whose  frequency  in  the  Low 
Countries  would  seem  to  furnish  proof  that  the  climate  is 
such  as  to  induce  degeneracy  of  the  human  mind  and  body  ; 
these,  I  soon  found,  were  completely  under  her  influence, 
and  with  their  aid  she  got  up  and  sustained  a  swinish 
tumult,  which  I  was  constrained  at  last  to  quell  by  ordering 
her  and  two  of  her  tools  to  rise  from  their  seats,  and,  having 
kept  them  standing  five  minutes,  turning  them  bodily  out  of 
the  schoolroom  :  the  accomplices  into  a  large  place  adjoining 
called  the  grande  salle ;  the  principal  into  a  cabinet,  of 
which  I  closed  the  door  and  pocketed  the  key.  This  judgment 
I  executed  in  the  presence  of  Mdlle.  Eeuter,  who  looked  much 
aghast  at  beholding  so  decided  a  proceeding — the  most  severe 
that  had  ever  been  ventured  on  in  her  establishment.  Her  look 
of  affright  I  answered  with  one  of  composure,  and  finally  with 
a  smile,  which  perhaps  flattered,  and  certainly  soothed  her. 
Juanna  Trista  remained  in  Europe  long  enough  to  repay,  by 


THE   PEOFESSOE  103 

malevolence  and  ingratitude,  all  who  had  ever  done  her  a  good 

turn  ;  and  she  then  went  to  join  her  father  in  the Isles, 

exulting  in  the  thought  that  she  should  there  have  slaves, 
whom,  as  she  said,  she  could  kick  and  strike  at  will. 

These  three  pictures  are  from  the  life.  I  possess  others, 
as  marked  and  as  little  agreeable,  but  I  will  spare  my  reader 
the  exhibition  of  them. 

Doubtless  it  will  be  thought  that  I  ought  now,  by  way  of 
contrast,  to  show  something  charming ;  some  gentle  virgin 
head,  circled  with  a  halo,  some  sweet  personification  of 
innocence,  clasping  the  dove  of  peace  to  her  bosom.  No  :  I 
saw  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  therefore  cannot  portray  it. 
The  pupil  in  the  school  possessing  the  happiest  disposition 
was  a  young  girl  from  the  country,  Louise  Path  ;  she  was 
sufficiently  benevolent  and  obliging,  but  not  well  taught  nor 
well  mannered ;  moreover,  the  plague-spot  of  dissimulation 
was  in  her  also  ;  honour  and  principle  were  unknown  to  her, 
she  had  scarcely  heard  their  names.  The  least  exceptionable 
pupil  was  the  poor  little  Sylvie  I  have  mentioned  once  before. 
Sylvie  was  gentle  in  manners,  intelligent  in  mind ;  she  was 
even  sincere,  as  far  as  her  religion  would  permit  her  to  be  so, 
but  her  physical  organisation  was  defective ;  weak  health 
stunted  her  growth  and  chilled  her  spirits,  and  then,  destined 
as  she  was  for  the  cloister,  her  whole  soul  was  warped  to  a 
conventual  bias,  and  in  the  tame,  trained  subjection  of  her 
manner,  one  read  that  she  had  already  prepared  herself  for 
her  future  course  of  life,  by  giving  up  her  independence  of 
thought  and  action  into  the  hands  of  some  despotic  confessor. 
She  permitted  herself  no  original  opinion,  no  preference  of 
companion  or  employment ;  in  everything  she  was  guided  by 
another.  With  a  pale,  passive,  automaton  air,  she  went 
about  all  day  long  doing  what  she  was  bid  ;  never  what  she 
liked,  or  what,  from  innate  conviction,  she  thought  it  right 
to  do.  The  poor  little  future  religieuse  had  been  early  taught 
to  make  the  dictates  of  her  own  reason  and  conscience  quite 
subordinate  to  the  will  of  her  spiritual  director.  She  was 
the  model  pupil  of  Mdlle.  Eeuter's  establishment ;  pale, 


104  THE   PROFESSOR 

blighted  image,  where  life  lingered  feebly,  but  whence  the 
soul  had  been  conjured  by  Romish  wizardcraft ! 

A  few  English  pupils  there  were  in  this  school,  and  these 
might  be  divided  into  two  classes.  1st.  The  continental 
English — the  daughters  chiefly  of  broken  adventurers  whom 
debt  or  dishonour  had  driven  from  their  own  country.  These 
poor  girls  had  never  known  the  advantages  of  settled  homes, 
decorous  example,  or  honest  Protestant  education  ;  resident 
a  few  months  now  in  one  Catholic  school,  now  in  another, 
as  their  parents  wandered  from  land  to  land — from  France 
to  Germany,  from  Germany  to  Belgium — they  had  picked  up 
some  scanty  instruction,  many  bad  habits,  losing  every 
notion  even  of  the  first  elements  of  religion  and  morals,  and 
acquiring  an  imbecile  indifference  to  every  sentiment  that 
can  elevate  humanity ;  they  were  distinguishable  by  an 
habitual  look  of  sullen  dejection,  the  result  of  crushed  self- 
respect  and  constant  browbeating  from  their  Popish  fellow- 
pupils,  who  hated  them  as  English,  and  scorned  them  as 
heretics. 

The  second  class  were  British  English.  Of  these  I  did 
not  encounter  half-a-dozen  during  the  whole  time  of  my 
attendance  at  the  seminary  ;  their  characteristics  were  clean 
but  careless  dress,  ill-arranged  hair  (compared  with  the  tight 
and  trim  foreigners),  erect  carriage,  flexible  figures,  white  and 
taper  hands,  features  more  irregular,  but  also  more  intellectual 
than  those  of  the  Belgians,  grave  and  modest  countenances, 
a  general  air  of  native  propriety  and  decency ;  by  this  last 
circumstance  alone  I  could  at  a  glance  distinguish  the 
daughter  of  Albion  and  nursling  of  Protestantism  from  the 
foster-child  of  Rome,  the  prot6y&c  of  Jesuitry  :  proud,  too, 
was  the  aspect  of  these  British  girls  ;  at  once  envied  and 
ridiculed  by  their  continental  associates,  they  warded  off 
insult  with  austere  civility,  and  met  hate  with  mute  disdain  ; 
they  eschewed  company-keeping,  and  in  the  midst  of  numbers 
seemed  to  dwell  isolated. 

The  teachers  presiding  over  this  mixed  multitude  were 
three  in  number,  all  French  —their  names  Mdlle-i.  Z6phyrine> 


THE  PEOFESSOR  105 

Pelagic,  and  Suzette ;  the  two  last  were  commonplace  per- 
sonages enough ;  their  look  was  ordinary,  their  manner  was 
ordinary,  their  temper  was  ordinary,  their  thoughts,  feelings, 
and  views  were  all  ordinary — were  I  to  write  a  chapter  on 
the  subject  I  could  not  elucidate  it  further.  Z6phyrine  was 
somewhat  more  distinguished  in  appearance  and  deportment 
than  Pelagie  and  Suzette,  but  in  character  a  genuine  Parisian 
coquette,  perfidious,  mercenary,  and  dry-hearted.  A  fourth 
maitresse  I  sometimes  saw  who  seemed  to  come  daily  to 
teach  needlework,  or  netting,  or  lace-mending,  or  some  such 
flimsy  art ;  but  of  her  I  never  had  more  than  a  passing 
glimpse,  as  she  sat  in  the  carre1,  with  her  frames  and  some 
dozen  of  the  elder  piipils  about  her  ;  consequently  I  had  no 
opportunity  of  studying  her  character,  or  even  of  observing 
her  person  much ;  the  latter,  I  remarked,  had  a  very  girlish 
air  for  a  maitresse,  otherwise  it  was  not  striking ;  of  character 
I  should  think  she  possessed  but  little,  as  her  pupils  seemed 
constantly  '  en  r6volte  '  against  her  authority.  She  did  not 
reside  in  the  house ;  her  name,  I  think,  was  Mdlle.  Henri. 

Amidst  this  assemblage  of  all  that  was  insignificant  and 
defective,  much  that  was  vicious  and  repulsive  (by  that  last 
epithet  many  would  have  described  the  two  or  three  stiff, 
silent,  decently  behaved,  ill-dressed  British  girls),  the  sensible, 
sagacious,  affable  directress  shone  like  a  steady  star  over  a 
marsh  full  of  Jack-o'-lanthorns ;  profoundly  aware  of  her 
superiority,  she  derived  an  inward  bliss  from  that  conscious- 
ness which  sustained  her  under  all  the  care  and  responsibility 
inseparable  from  her  position  ;  it  kept  her  temper  calm,  her 
brow  smooth,  her  manner  tranquil.  She  liked — as  who 
would  not  ? — on  entering  the  schoolroom,  to  feel  that  her 
sole  presence  sufficed  to  diffuse  that  order  and  quiet  which 
all  the  remonstrances,  and  even  commands,  of  her  under- 
lings frequently  failed  to  enforce  ;  she  liked  to  stand  in  com- 
parison, or  rather  contrast,  with  those  who  surrounded  her, 
and  to  know  that  in  personal  as  well  as  mental  advantages, 
she  bore  away  the  undisputed  palm  of  preference — (the  three 
teachers  were  all  plain).  Her  pupils  she  managed  with  such 


106  THE   PROFESSOR 

indulgence  and  address,  taking  always  on  herself  the  office 
of  recompense!'  and  eulogist,  and  abandoning  to  her  subalterns 
every  invidious  task  of  blame  and  punishment,  that  they  all 
regarded  her  with  deference,  if  not  with  affection ;  her 
teachers  did  not  love  her,  but  they  submitted  because  they 
were  her  inferiors  in  everything ;  the  various  masters  who 
attended  her  school  were  each  and  all  in  some  way  or  other 
under  her  influence  :  over  one  she  had  acquired  power  by 
her  skilful  management  of  his  bad  temper  ;  over  another  by 
little  attentions  to  his  petty  caprices ;  a  third  she  had  sub- 
dued by  flattery  ;  a  fourth — a  timid  man  —she  kept  in  awe 
by  a  sort  of  austere  decision  of  mien  ;  me,  she  still  watched, 
still  tried  by  the  most  ingenious  tests — she  roved  round  me, 
baffled,  yet  persevering ;  I  believe  she  thought  I  was  like  a 
smooth  and  bare  precipice,  which  offered  neither  jutting 
stone  nor  tree-root,  nor  tuft  of  grass  to  aid  the  climber.  NOAV 
she  flattered  with  exquisite  tact,  now  she  moralised,  now  she 
tried  how  far  I  was  accessible  to  mercenary  motives,  then 
she  disported  on  the  brink  of  affection — knowing  that  some 
men  are  won  by  weakness — anon,  she  talked  excellent  sense, 
aware  that  others  have  the  folly  to  admire  judgment.  I 
found  it  at  once  pleasant  and  easy  to  evade  all  these  efforts ;  it 
was  sweet,  when  she  thought  me  nearly  won,  to  turn  round 
and  to  smile  in  her  very  eyes,  half  scornfully,  and  then  to 
witness  her  scarcely  veiled,  though  mute  mortification.  Still 
she  persevered,  and  at  last,  I  am  bound  to  confess  it,  her 
finger,  essaying,  proving  every  atom  of  the  casket,  touched 
its  secret  spring,  and  for  a  moment  the  lid  spmng  open  ;  she 
laid  her  hand  on  the  jewel  within ;  whether  she  stole  and 
broke  it,  or  whether  the  lid  shut  again  with  a  snap  on  her 
fingers,  read  on,  and  you  shall  know. 

It  happened  that  I  came  one  day  to  give  a  lesson  when 
I  was  indisposed  ;  I  had  a  bad  cold  and  a  cough ;  two  hours' 
incessant  talking  left  me  very  hoarse  and  tired  ;  as  I  quitted 
the  schoolroom,  and  was  passing  along  the  corridor,  I  met 
Mdlle.  Reuter ;  she  remarked,  with  an  anxious  air,  that  I 
looked  very  pale  and  tired.  '  Yes,'  I  said,  '  I  was  fatigued  ; ' 


THE  PKOFESSOE  107 

and  then,  with  increased  interest,  she  rejoined,  '  You  shall 
not  go  away  till  you  have  had  some  refreshment.'  She 
persuaded  me  to  step  into  the  parlour,  and  was  very  kind 
and  gentle  while  I  stayed.  The  next  day  she  was  kinder 
still ;  she  came  herself  into  the  class  to  see  that  the  windows 
were  closed,  and  that  there  was  no  draught ;  she  exhorted 
me  with  friendly  earnestness  not  to  over-exert  myself ;  when 
I  went  away,  she  gave  me  her  hand  unasked,  and  I  could 
not  but  mark,  hy  a  respectful  and  gentle  pressure,  that  I 
was  sensible  of  the  favour,  and  grateful  for  it.  My  modest 
demonstration  kindled  a  little  merry  smile  on  her  counten- 
ance ;  I  thought  her  almost  charming.  During  the  remainder 
of  the  evening,  my  mind  was  full  of  impatience  for  the 
afternoon  of  the  next  day  to  arrive,  that  I  might  see  her 
again. 

I  was  not  disappointed,  for  she  sat  in  the  class  during 
the  whole  of  my  subsequent  lesson,  and  often  looked  at  me 
almost  with  affection.  At  four  o'clock  she  accompanied  me 
out  of  the  schoolroom,  asking  with  solicitude  after  my  health, 
then  scolding  me  sweetly  because  I  spoke  too  loud  and  gave 
myself  too  much  trouble  ;  I  stopped  at  the  glass-door  which 
led  into  the  garden,  to  hear  her  lecture  to  the  end  ;  the  door 
was  open,  it  was  a  very  fine  day,  and  while  I  listened  to  the 
soothing  reprimand,  I  looked  at  the  sunshine  and  flowers, 
and  felt  very  happy.  The  day-scholars  began  to  pour  from 
the  schoolrooms  into  the  passage. 

1  Will  you  go  into  the  garden  a  minute  or  two,'  asked 
she,  '  till  they  are  gone  ? ' 

I  descended  the  steps  without  answering,  but  I  looked 
back  as  much  as  to  say — '  You  will  come  with  me '? ' 

In  another  minute  I  and  the  directress  were  walking  side 
by*  side  down  the  alley  bordered  with  fruit-trees,  whose 
white  blossoms  were  then  in  full  blow  as  well  as  their 
tender  green  leaves.  The  sky  was  blue,  the  air  still,  the 
May  afternoon  was  full  of  brightness  and  fragrance. 
Eeleased  from  the  stifling  class,  surrounded  with  flowers 
and  foliage,  with  a  pleasing,  smiling,  affable  woman  at  my 


168  THE  PBOFESSOK 

side — how  did  I  feel  ?  Why,  very  enviably.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  romantic  visions  my  imagination  had  suggested  of  this 
garden,  while  it  was  yet  hidden  from  me  by  the  jealous 
boards,  were  more  than  realised ;  and,  when  a  turn  in  the 
alley  shut  out  the  view  of  the  house,  and  some  tall  shrubs 
excluded  M.  Pelet's  mansion,  and  screened  us  momentarily 
from  the  other  houses,  rising  amphitheatre-like  round  this 
green  spot,  I  gave  my  arm  to  Mdlle.  Eeuter,  and  led  her  to 
a  garden-chair,  nestled  under  some  lilacs  near.  She  sat 
down  ;  I  took  my  place  at  her  side.  She  went  on  talking  to 
me  with  that  ease  which  communicates  ease,  and,  as  I 
listened,  a  revelation  dawned  in  my  mind  that  I  was  on  the 
brink  of  falling  in  love.  The  dinner-bell  rang,  both  at  her 
house  and  M.  Pelet's ;  we  were  obliged  to  part ;  I  detained 
her  a  moment  as  she  was  moving  away. 
1 1  want  something,'  said  I. 
'  What  ? '  asked  Zoraide,  naively. 
'  Only  a  flower.' 

'  Gather  it  then — or  two,  or  twenty,  if  you  like.' 
'  No — one  will  do — but  you  must  gather  it,  and  give  it  to 
me.' 

1  What  a  caprice  ! '  she  exclaimed,  but  she  raised  herself 
on  her  tip-toes,  and,  plucking  a  beautiful  branch  of  lilac, 
offered  it  to  me  with  grace.  I  took  it,  and  went  away, 
satisfied  for  the  present,  and  hopeful  for  the  future. 

Certainly  that  May  day  was  a  lovely  one,  and  it  closed 
in  moonlight  night  of  summer  warmth  and  serenity.  I 
remember  this  well ;  for,  having  sat  up  late  that  evening, 
correcting  devoirs,  and  feeling  weary  and  a  little  oppressed 
with  the  closeness  of  my  small  room,  I  opened  the  often- 
mentioned  boarded  window,  whose  boards,  however,  I  bad 
persuaded  old  Madame  Pelet  to  have  removed  since  I  had 
filled  the  post  of  professor  in  the  pensionnat  de  demoiselles, 
as,  from  that  time,  it  was  no  longer  '  inconvenient '  for  me  to 
overlook  my  own  pupils  at  their  sports.  I  sat  down  in  the 
window-seat,  rested  my  arm  on  the  sill,  and  leaned  out : 
above  me  was  the  clear-obscure  of  a  cloudless  night  sky — 


THE  PBOFESSO&  109 

splendid  moonlight  subdued  the  tremulous  sparkle  of  the 
stars — below  lay  the  garden,  varied  with  silvery  lustre  and 
deep  shade,  and  all  fresh  with  dew — a  grateful  perfume 
exhaled  from  the  closed  blossoms  of  the  fruit-trees — not  a 
leaf  stirred,  the  night  was  breezeless.  My  window  looked 
directly  down  upon  a  certain  walk  of  Mdlle.  Eeuter's  garden, 
called  '  1'allee  defendue,'  so  named  because  the  pupils  were 
forbidden  to  enter  it  on  account  of  its  proximity  to  the  boys' 
school.  It  was  here  that  the  lilacs  and  laburnums  grew 
especially  thick;  this  was  the  most  sheltered  nook  in  the 
enclosure,  its  shrubs  screened  the  garden-chair  where  that 
afternoon  I  had  sat  with  the  young  directress.  I  need  not 
say  that  my  thoughts  were  chiefly  with  her  as  I  leaned  from 
the  lattice,  and  let  my  eye  roam,  now  over  the  walks  and 
borders  of  the  garden,  now  along  the  many-windowed  front 
of  the  house,  which  rose  white  beyond  the  masses  of  foliage. 
I  wondered  in  what  part  of  the  building  was  situated  her 
apartment ;  and  a  single  light,  shining  through  the  persiennes 
of  one  croise'e,  seemed  to  direct  me  to  it. 

'  She  watches  late,'  thought  I,  '  for  it  must  be  now  near 
midnight.  She  is  a  fascinating  little  woman,'  I  continued  in 
voiceless  soliloquy  ;  '  her  image  forms  a  pleasant  picture  in 
memory  ;  I  know  she  is  not  what  the  world  calls  pretty — no 
matter,  there  is  harmony  in  her  aspect,  and  I  like  it ;  her 
brown  hair,  her  blue  eye,  the  freshness  of  her  cheek,  the 
whiteness  of  her  neck,  all  suit  my  taste.  Then  I  respect  her 
talent ;  the  idea  of  marrying  a  doll  or  a  fool  was  always 
abhorrent  to  me  :  I  know  that  a  pretty  doll,  a  fair  fool, 
migTitdo  well  enough  for  the  honeymoon ;  but  when  passion 
cooled,  how  dreadful  to  find  a  lump  of  wax  and  wood  laid  in 
my  bosom,  a  half  idiot  clasped  in  my  arms,  and  to  remember 
that  I  had  made  of  this  my  equal — nay,  my  idol — to  know 
that  I  must  pass  the  rest  of  my  dreary  life  with  a  creature 
incapable  of  understanding  what  1  said,  of  appreciating  what 
I  thought,  or  of  sympathising  with  what  I  felt !  '  Now, 
Zoraide  Keuter,'  thought  I,  'has  tact,  "  caractere,"  judgment, 
discretion;  1ms  she  heart?  What  a  good,  simple  little  smile 


110  THE  PKOFESSOR 

played  about  her  lips  when  she  gave  me  the  branch  of  lilacs  ! 
I  have  thought  her  crafty,  dissembling,  interested  sometimes, 
it  is  true ;  but  may  not  much  that  looks  like  cunning  and 
dissimulation  in  her  conduct  be  only  the  efforts  made  by  a 
bland  temper  to  traverse  quietly  perplexing  difficulties? 
And  as  to  interest,  she  wishes  to  make  her  way  in  the 
world,  no  doubt,  and  who  can  blame  her  ?  Even  if  she  be 
truly  deficient  in  sound  principle,  is  it  not  rather  her  mis- 
fortune than  her  fault  ?  She  has  been  brought  up  a  Catholic  : 
had  she  been  born  an  Englishwoman,  and  reared  a  Protes- 
tant, might  she  not  have  added  straight  integrity  to  all  her 
other  excellences  ?  Supposing  she  were  to  marry  an  English 
and  Protestant  husband,  would  she  not,  rational,  sensible  as 
she  is,  quickly  acknowledge  the  superiority  of  right  over 
expediency,  honesty  over  policy?  It  would  be  worth  a 
man's  while  to  try  the  experiment ;  to-morrow  I  will  renew 
my  observations.  She  knows  that  I  watch  her  :  how  calm 
she  is  under  scrutiny !  it  seems  rather  to  gratify  than  annoy 
her.'  Here  a  strain  of  music  stole  in  upon  my  monologue, 
and  suspended  it ;  it  was  a  bugle,  very  skilfully  played,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  park,  I  thought,  or  on  the  Place 
Eoyale.  So  sweet  were  the  tones,  so  subduing  their  effect 
at  that  hour,  in  the  midst  of  silence  and  under  the  quiet 
reign  of  moonlight,  I  ceased  to  think,  that  I  might  listen 
more  intently.  The  strain  retreated,  its  sound  waxed 
fainter  and  was  soon  gone ;  my  ear  prepared  to  repose  on 
the  absolute  hush  of  midnight  once  more.  No.  What 
murmur  was  that  which,  low,  and  yet  near  and  approaching 
nearer,  frustrated  the  expectation  of  total  silence  ?  It  was 
some  one  conversing — yes,  evidently,  an  audible,  though 
subdued  voice  spoke  in  the  garden  immediately  below  me. 
Another  answered :  the  first  voice  was  that  of  a  man,  the 
s:cond  that  of  a  woman ;  and  a  man  and  a  woman  I  saw 
coming  slowly  down  the  alley.  Their  forms  were  at  first  in 
shade,  I  could  but  discern  a  dusk  outline  of  each,  but  a 
ray  of  moonlight  met  them  at  the  termination  of  the  walk, 
when  they  were  under  my  very  nose,  and  revealed  very 


THE   PROFESSOR  111 

plainly,  very  unequivocally,  Mdlle.  Zoraide  Reuter,  arm-in- 
arm, or  hand-in-hand  (I  forget  which)  with  my  principal, 
confidant,  and  counsellor,  M.  Fra^ois  Pelet.  And  M. 
Pelet  was  saying — 'A  quand  done  le  jour  des  noces,  ma 
bien-aim6e?' 

And  Mdlle.  Reuter  answered — '  Mais,  FranQois,  tu  sais 
bien  qu'il  me  serait  impossible  de  me  marier  avant  les 
vacances.' 

'  June,  July,  August,  a  whole  quarter ! '  exclaimed  the 
director.  '  How  can  I  wait  so  long  ?  I  who  am  ready,  even 
now,  to  expire  at  your  feet  with  impatience ! ' 

'  Ah  !  if  you  die,  the  whole  affair  will  be  settled  without 
any  trouble  about  notaries  and  contracts ;  I  shall  only 
have  to  order  a  slight  mourning  dress,  which  will  be  much 
sooner  prepared  than  the  nuptial  trousseau.' 

'  Cruel  Zoraide !  you  laugh  at  the  distress  of  one  who 
loves  you  so  devotedly  as  I  do ;  my  torment  is  your  sport ; 
you  scruple  not  to  stretch  my  soul  on  the  rack  of  jealousy ; 
for,  deny  it  as  you  will,  I  am  certain  you  have  cast 
encouraging  glances  on  that  school-boy,  Crimsworth ;  he  has 
presumed  to  fall  in  love,  which  he  dared  not  have  done 
unless  you  had  given  him  room  to  hope.' 

1  What  do  you  say,  Fra^ois  ?  Do  you  say  Crimsworth 
is  in  love  with  me  ?  ' 

'  Over  head  and  ears.' 

1  Has  he  told  you  so  ? ' 

'  No — but  I  see  it  in  his  face ;  he  blushes  whenever  your 
name  is  mentioned.' 

A  little  laugh  of  exulting  coquetry  announced  Mdlle. 
Renter's  gratification  at  this  piece  of  intelligence  (which  was 
a  lie,  by-the-by — I  had  never  been  so  far  gone  as  that,  after 
all).  M.  Pelet  proceeded  to  ask  what  she  intended  to  do 
with  me,  intimating  pretty  plainly,  and  not  very  gallantly, 
that  it  was  nonsense  for  her  to  think  of  taking  such  a 
1  blanc-bec '  as  a  husband,  since  she  must  be  at  least  ten 
years  older  than  I  (was  she  then  thirty-two  ?  I  should  not 
have  thought  it).  I  heard  her  disclaim  any  intentions  on 


112  THE   PROFESSOR 

the  subject — the  director,  however,  still  pressed  her  to  give 
a  definite  answer. 

'  Fra^ois,'  said  she,  '  you  are  jealous,'  and  still  she 
laughed ;  then,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  that  this  coquetry 
was  not  consistent  with  the  character  for  modest  dignity  she 
wished  to  establish,  she  proceeded,  in  a  demure  voice : 
'  Truly,  my  dear  Francois,  I  will  not  deny  that  this  young 
Englishman  may  have  made  some  attempts  to  ingratiate 
himself  with  me ;  but,  so  far  from  giving  him  any  encourage- 
ment, I  have  always  treated  him  with  as  much  reserve  as  it 
was  possible  to  combine  with  civility ;  affianced  as  I  am  to 
you,  I  would  give  no  man  false  hopes ;  believe  me,  dear 
friend.' 

Still  Pelet  uttered  murmurs  of  distrust — so  I  judged,  at 
least,  from  her  reply. 

'  What  folly !  How  could  I  prefer  an  unknown  foroigne: 
to  you?  And  then — not  to  flatter  your  vanity — Crims- 
worth  could  not  bear  comparison  with  you  either  physically 
or  mentally ;  he  is  not  a  handsome  man  at  all ;  some  may 
call  him  gentleman-like  and  intelligent-looking,  but  for  my 
part — 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  in  the  distance,  as  the 
pair,  rising  from  the  chair  in  which  they  had  been  seated, 
moved  away.  I  waited  their  return,  but  soon  the  opening  and 
shutting  of  a  door  informed  me  that  they  had  re-entered  the 
house  ;  I  listened  a  little  longer,  all  was  perfectly  still ;  I 
listened  more  than  an  hour — at  last  I  heard  M.  Pelet  come 
in  and  ascend  to  his  chamber.  Glancing  once  more  towards 
the  long  front  of  the  garden-house,  1  perceived  that  its 
solitary  light  was  at  length  extinguished  ;  so,  for  a  time,  war, 
uiy  faith  in  love  and  friendship.  I  went  to  bed,  but  some- 
thing feverish  and  fiery  had  got  into  my  veins  which  pre- 
vented me  from  sleeping  much  that  night. 


CHAPTEB  XIII 

NEXT  morning  I  rose  with  the  dawn,  and  having  dressed 
myself  and  stood  half-an-hour,  my  elbow  leaning  on  the 
chest  of  drawers,  considering  what  means  I  should  adopt  to 
restore  my  spirits,  fagged  with  sleeplessness,  to  their  ordinary 
tone — for  I  had  no  intention  of  getting  up  a  scene  with 
M.  Pelet,  reproaching  him  with  perfidy,  sending  him  a 
challenge,  or  performing  other  gambadoes  of  the  sort — I  hit 
at  last  on  the  expedient  of  walking  out  in  the  cool  of  the 
morning  to  a  neighboui'ing  establishment  of  baths,  and 
treating  myself  to  a  bracing  plunge.  The  remedy  produced 
the  desired  effect.  I  came  back  at  seven  o'clock  steadied 
and  invigorated,  and  was  able  to  greet  M.  Pelet,  when  he 
entered  to  breakfast,  with  an  unchanged  and  tranquil  coun- 
tenance ;  even  a  cordial  offering  of  the  hand  and  the  flattering 
appellation  of  '  mon  fils,'  pronounced  in  that  cavessing  tone 
with  which*  Monsieur  had,  of  late  days  especially,  been 
accustomed  to  address  me,  did  not  elicit  any  external  sign 
of  the  feeling  which,  though  subdued,  still  glowed  at  my 
heart.  Not  that  I  nursed  vengeance — no  ;  but  the  sense  of 
insult  and  treachery  lived  in  me  like  a  kindling,  though  as 
yet  smothered  coal.  God  knows  I  am  not  by  nature  vindic- 
tive ;  I  would  not  hurt  a  man  because  I  can  no  longer  trust 
or  like  him  ;  but  neither  my  reason  nor  feelings  are  of  the 
vacillating  order— they  are  not  of  that  sand-like  sort  where 
impressions,  if  soon  made,  are  as  soon  effaced.  Once  con- 
vinced that  my  friend's  disposition  is  incompatible  with  my 
own,  once  assured  that  he  is  indelibly  stained  with  certain 
defects  obnoxious  to  my  principles,  and  1  dissolve  the 


114  THE   PKOFESSOE 

connection.  I  did  so  with  Edward.  As  to  Pelet,  the  discovery 
was  yet  new;  should  I  act  thus  with  him?  It  was  the 
question  I  placed  before  my  mind  as  I  stirred  my  cup  of 
coffee  with  a  half-pistolet  (we  never  had  spoons),  Pelet 
meantime  being  seated  opposite,  his  pallid  face  looking  as 
knowing  and  more  haggard  than  usual,  his  blue  eye  turned, 
now  sternly  on  his  boys  and  ushers,  and  now  graciously  on 
me. 

1  Circumstances  must  guide  me,'  said  I ;  and  meeting 
Pelet's  false  glance  and  insinuating  smile,  I  thanked  heaven 
that  I  had  last  night  opened  my  window  and  read  by  the 
light  of  a  full  moon  the  true  meaning  of  that  guileful 
countenance.  I  felt  half  his  master,  because  the  reality  of 
his  nature  was  now  known  to  me ;  smile  and  flatter  as  he 
would,  I  saw  his  soul  lurk  behind  his  smile,  and  heard  in 
every  one  of  his  smooth  phrases  a  voice  interpreting  their 
treacherous  import. 

But  Zoraide  Eeuter  ?  Of  course  her  defection  had  cut 
me  to  the  quick  ?  That  sting  must  have  gone  too  deep  for 
any  consolations  of  philosophy  to  be  available  in  curing  its 
smart  ?  Not  at  all.  The  night  fever  over,  I  looked  about  for 
balm  to  that  wound  also,  and  found  some  nearer  home  than  at 
Gilead.  Reason  was  my  physician ;  she  began  by  proving 
that  the  prize  I  had  missed  was  of  little  value  :  she  admitted 
that,  physically,  Zoraide  might  have  suited  me,  but  affirmed 
that  our  souls  were  not  in  harmony,  and  that  discord  must 
have  resulted  from  the  union  of  her  mind  with  mine.  She 
then  insisted  on  the  suppression  of  all  repining,  and  com- 
manded me  rather  to  rejoice  that  I  had  escaped  a  snare. 
Her  medicament  did  me  good.  I  felt  its  strengthening  effect 
when  I  met  the  directress  the  next  day;  its  stringent 
operation  on  the  nerves  suff  3red  no  trembling,  no  faltering ; 
it  enabled  me  to  face  her  with  firmness,  to  pass  her  with 
ease.  She  had  held  out  her  hand  to  me — that  I  did 
not  choose  to  see.  She  had  greeted  me  with  a  charming 
smile — it  fell  on  my  heart  like  light  on  stone.  I  pasr.ed  on 
to  the  estrade,  she  followed  me ;  her  eye,  fastened  ou  my 


face,  demanded  of  every  feature  the  meaning  of  my  changed 
and  careless  manner.  '  I  will  give  her  an  answer/  thought 
I ;  and,  meeting  her  gaze  full,  arresting,  fixing  her  glance,  I 
shot  into  her  eyes,  from  my  own,  a  look,  where  there  was  no 
respect,  no  love,  no  tenderness,  no  gallantry;  where  the 
strictest  analysis  could  detect  nothing  but  scorn,  hardihood, 
hxmy.  I  made  her  bear  it,  and  feel  it ;  her  steady  counten- 
ance did  not  change,  but  her  colour  rose,  and  she  approached 
me  as  if  fascinated.  She  stepped  on  to  the  estrade,  and 
stood  close  by  my  side  ;  she  had  nothing  to  say.  I  would 
not  relieve  her  embarrassment,  and  negligently  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  a  book. 

1 1  hope  you  feel  quite  recovered  to-day,'  at  last  she  said, 
in  a  low  tone. 

'  And  I,  Mademoiselle,  hope  that  you  took  no  cold  last 
night  in  consequence  of  your  late  walk  in  the  garden.' 

Quick  enough  of  comprehension,  she  understood  me 
directly  ;  her  face  became  a  little  blanched — a  very  little — 
but  no  muscle  in  her  rather  marked  features  moved ;  and, 
calm  and  self-possessed,  she  retired  from  the  estrade,  taking 
her  seat  quietly  at  a  little  distance,  and  occupying  herself 
with  netting  a  purse.  I  proceeded  to  give  my  lesson ;  it 
was  a  '  Composition,'  i.e.,  I  dictated  certain  general  questions, 
of  which  the  pupils  were  to  compose  the  answers  from 
memory,  access  to  books  being  forbidden.  While  Mdlle. 
Eulalie,  Hortense,  Caroline,  &c.,  were  pondering  over  the 
string  of  rather  abstruse  grammatical  interrogatories  I  had 
propounded,  I  was  at  liberty  to  employ  the  vacant  half-hour 
in  further  observing  the  directress  herself.  The  green  silk 
purse  was  progressing  fast  in  her  hands ;  her  eyes  were  bent 
upon  it ;  her  attitude,  as  she  sat  netting  within  two  yards  of 
me,  was  still  yet  guarded ;  in  her  whole  person  were 
expressed  at  once,  and  with  equal  clearness,  vigilance  and 
repose — a  rare  union  !  Looking  at  her,  I  was  forced,  as  1 
had  often  been  before,  to  offer  her  good  sense,  her  wondrou-; 
self-control,  the  tribute  of  involuntary  admiration.  She 
had  felt  that  I  had  withdrawn  from  her  my  esteem ; 


116  THE  PROFESSOR 

she  had  seen  contempt  and  coldness  in  my  eye,  and  to 
her,  who  coveted  the  approbation  of  all  around  her,  who 
thirsted  after  univei-sal  good  opinion,  such  discovery  must 
have  been  an  acute  wound.  I  had  witnessed  its  effect 
in  the  momentary  pallor  of  her  cheek — cheek  unused  to 
vary;  yet  how  quickly,  by  dint  of  self-control,  had  she 
recovered  her  composure !  With  what  quiet  dignity  she 
now  sat,  almost  at  my  side,  sustained  by  her  sound  and 
vigorous  sense  ;  no  trembling  in  her  somewhat  lengthened, 
though  shrewd  upper  lip,  no  coward  shame  on  her  austere 
forehead ! 

'  There  is  metal  there,'  I  said,  as  I  gazed.  '  Would  that 
there  were  fire  also,  living  ardour  to  make  the  steel  glow — 
then  I  could  love  her.' 

Presently  I  discovered  that  she  knew  I  was  watching 
her,  for  she  stirred  not,  she  lifted  not  her  crafty  eyelid ;  she 
had  glanced  down  from  her  netting  to  her  small  foot, 
peeping  from  the  soft  folds  of  her  purple  merino  gown  ; 
thence  her  eye  reverted  to  her  hand,  ivory  white,  with  a 
bright  garnet  ring  on  the  forefinger,  and  a  light  frill  of  lace 
round  the  wrist ;  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  movement  she 
turned  her  head,  causing  her  nut-brown  curls  to  wave 
gracefully.  In  these  slight  signs  I  read  that  the  wish  of 
her  heai't,  the  design  of  her  brain,  was  to  lure  back  the  game 
she  had  scared.  A  little  incident  gave  her  the  opportunity 
of  addressing  me  again. 

While  all  was  silence  in  the  class — silence,  but  for  the 
rustling  of  copy-books  and  the  travelling  of  pens  over  their 
pages— a  leaf  of  the  large  folding-door,  opening  from  the 
hall,  unclosed,  admitting  a  pupil  who,  after  making  a  hasty 
obeisance,  ensconced  herself  with  some  appearance  of  trepida- 
tion, probably  occasioned  by  her  entering  so  late,  in  a  vacant 
seat  at  the  desk  nearest  the  door.  Being  seated,  she 
proceeded,  still  with  an  air  of  hurry  and  embarrassment,  to 
open  her  cabas,  to  take  out  her  books  ;  and,  while  I  was 
waiting  for  her  to  look  up,  in  order  to  make  out  her  identity 
—  for,  short-sighted  a .  1  was,  I  had  not  recognised  her  at  her 


THE  PEOFESSOE  117 

entrance — Mdlle.  Eeuter,  leaving  her  chair,  approached  the 
estrade. 

'  Monsieur  Creemsvort,'  said  she,  in  a  whisper  :  for  when 
the  schoolrooms  were  silent,  the  directress  always  moved 
with  velvet  tread,  and  spoke  in  the  most  subdued  key, 
enforcing  order  and  stillness  fully  as  much  by  example  as 
precept :  '  Monsieur  Creemsvort,  that  young  person,  who  has 
just  entered,  wishes  to  have  the  advantage  of  taking  lessons 
with  you  in  English  ;  she  is  not  a  pupil  of  the  house ;  she  is, 
indeed,  in  one  sense,  a  teacher,  for  she  gives  instruction-  in 
lace-mending,  and  in  little  varieties  of  ornamental  needle- 
work. She  very  properly  proposes  to  qualify  herself  for  a 
higher  department  of  education,  and  has  asked  permission  to 
attend  your  lessons,  in  order  to  perfect  her  knowledge  of 
English,  in  which  language  she  has,  I  believe,  already  made 
some  progress  ;  of  course  it  is  my  wish  to  aid  her  in  an  effort 
so  praiseworthy ;  you  will  permit  her  then  to  benefit  by  your 
instruction — n'est-ce  pas,  Monsieur  ?  '  And  Mdlle.  Eeuter's 
eyes  were  raised  to  mine  with  a  look  at  once  naive,  benign, 
and  beseeching. 

I  replied,  '  Of  course,'  very  laconically,  almost  abruptly. 

'  Another  word,'  she  said,  with  softness  :  '  Mdlle.  Henri 
has  not  received  a  regular  education  ;  perhaps  her  natural 
talents  are  not  of  the  highest  order :  but  I  can  assure  you  of 
the  excellence  of  her  intentions,  and  even  of  the  amiability 
of  her  disposition.  Monsieur  will  then,  I  am  sure,  have  the 
goodness  to  be  considerate  with  her  at  first,  and  not  expose 
her  backwardness,  her  inevitable  deficiencies,  before  the 
young  ladies,  who,  in  a  sense,  are  her  pupils.  Will  Monsieur 
Creemsvort  favour  me  by  attending  to  this  hint '? ' 

I  nodded. 

She  continued  with  subdued  earnestness — '  Pardon  me, 
Monsieur,  if  I  venture  to  add  that  what  I  have  just  said  is 
of  importance  to  the  poor  girl ;  she  already  experiences  great 
difficulty  in  impressing  these  giddy  young  things  with  a  due 
degree  of  deference  for  her  authority,  and  should  that  diffi- 
culty be  increased  by  new  discoveries  of  her  incapacity,  she 


118  THE  PEOFESSOE 

might  find  her  position  in  my  establishment  too  painful  to  be 
retained ;  a  circumstance  I  should  much  regret  for  her  sake,  as 
she  can  ill  afford  to  lose  the  profits  of  her  occupation  here.' 

Mdlle.  Eeuter  possessed  marvellous  tact ;  but  tact  the 
most  exquisite,  unsupported  by  sincerity,  will  sometimes 
fail  of  its  effect ;  thus,  on  this  occasion,  the  longer  she 
preached  about  the  necessity  of  being  indulgent  to  the 
governess-pupil,  the  more  impatient  I  felt  as  I  listened.  I 
discerned  so  clearly  that  while  her  professed  motive  was  a 
wish  to  aid  the  dull,  though  well-meaning  Mdlle.  Henri,  her 
real  one  was  no  other  than  a  design  to  impress  me  with  an 
idea  of  her  own  exalted  goodness  and  tender  considerateness  ; 
so  having  again  hastily  nodded  assent  to  her  remarks,  I 
obviated  their  renewal  by  suddenly  demanding  the  composi- 
tions, in  a  sharp  accent,  and  stepping  from  the  estrade,  I 
proceeded  to  collect  them.  As  I  passed  the  governess-pupil, 
I  said  to  her — '  You  have  come  in  too  late  to  receive  a 
lesson  to-day  ;  try  to  be  more  punctual  next  time.' 

I  was  behind  her,  and  could  not  read  in  her  face  the 
effect  of  my  not  very  civil  speech.  Probably  I  should  not 
have  troubled  myself  to  do  so,  had  I  been  full  in  front ;  but 
I  observed  that  she  immediately  began  to  slip  her  books  into 
her  cabas  again  ;  and,  presently,  after  I  had  returned  to  the 
estrade,  while  I  was  arranging  the  mass  of  compositions,  I 
heard  the  folding-door  again  open  and  close;  and,  on  looking 
up,  I  perceived  her  place  vacant.  I  thought  to  myself,  '  She 
will  consider  her  first  attempt  at  taking  a  lesson  in  English 
something  of  a  failure ; '  and  I  wondered  whether  she  had 
departed  in  the  sulks,  or  whether  stupidity  had  induced  her 
to  take  my  words  too  literally,  or,  finally,  whether  my 
irritable  tone  had  wounded  her  feelings.  The  last  notion  I 
dismissed  almost  as  soon  as  I  had  conceived  it,  for  not 
having  seen  any  appearance  of  sensitiveness  in  any  human 
face  since  my  arrival  in  Belgium,  I  had  begun  to  regard  it 
almost  as  a  fabulous  quality.  Whether  her  physiognomy 
announced  it  I  could  not  tell,  for  her  speedy  exit  had 
allowed  me  no  time  to  ascertain  the  circumstance,  I  had, 


THE  PKOFESSOR  119 

indeed,  on  two  or  three  previous  occasions,  caught  a  passing 
view  of  her  (as  I  believe  has  been  mentioned  before) ;  but  I 
had  never  stopped  to  scrutinise  either  her  face  or  person, 
and  had  but  the  most  vague  idea  of  her  general  appearance. 
Just  as  I  had  finished  rolling  up  the  compositions,  the  four- 
o'clock  bell  rang  ;  with  my  accustomed  alertness  in  obeying 
that  signal,  I  grasped  my  hat  and  evacuated  the  premises. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IF  I  was  punctual  in  quitting  Mdlle.  Eeuter's  domicile,  I 
was  at  least  equally  punctual  in  arriving  there ;  I  came  the 
next  day  at  live  minutes  before  two,  and  on  reaching  the 
schoolroom  door,  before  I  opened  it,  i  heard  a  rapid,  gabbling 
sound,  which  warned  me  that  the  '  priere  du  midi '  was  not 
yet  concluded.  I  waited  the  termination  thereof ;  it  would 
have  been  impious  to  intrude  my  heretical  presence  during 
its  progress.  How  the  repeater  of  the  prayer  did  cackle  and 
splutter  !  I  never  before  or  since  heard  language  enounced 
with  such  steam-engine  haste.  '  Notre  Pere  qui  etes  au  ciel ' 
went  off  like  a  shot ;  then  followed  an  address  to  Marie, 
'  vierge  celeste,  reine  des  anges,  maison  d'or,  tour  d'ivoire  ! ' 
and  then  an  invocation  to  the  saint  of  the  day ;  and  then 
down  they  all  sat,  and  the  solemn  (?)  rite  was  over ;  and  I 
entered,  flinging  the  door  wide  and  striding  in  fast,  as  it  was 
my  wont  to  do  now  ;  for  I  had  found  that  in  entering  with 
aplomb,  and  mounting  the  estrade  with  emphasis,  consisted 
the  grand  secret  of  ensuring  immediate  silence.  The  folding- 
doors  between  the  two  classes,  opened  for  the  prayer,  were 
instantly  closed ;  a  maitresse,  work-box  in  hand,  took  her 
seat  at  her  appropriate  desk  ;  the  pupils  sat  still  with  their 
pens  and  books  before  them  ;  my  three  beauties  in  the  van, 
now  well  humbled  by  a  demeanour  of  consistent  coolness, 
sat  erect  with  their  hands  folded  quietly  on  their  knees ;  they 
had  given  up  giggling  and  whispering  to  each  other,  and  no 
longer  ventured  to  utter  pert  speeches  in  my  presence  ;  they 
now  only  talked  to  me  occasionally  with  their  eyes,  by  means 
of  which  organs  they  could  still,  however,  say  very  audacious 
and  coquettish  things.  Had  affection,  goodness,  modesty, 


THE  PftOtfESSOR  121 

real  talent,  ever  employed  those  bright  orbs  as  interpreters,  I 
do  not  think  I  could  have  refrained  from  giving  a  kind  and 
encouraging,  perhaps  an  ardent  reply  now  and  then  ;  but  as 
it  was,  I  found  pleasure  in  answering  the  glance  of  vanity 
with  the  gaze  of  stoicism.  Youthful,  fair,  brilliant,  as  were 
many  of  my  pupils,  I  can  truly  say  that  in  me  they  never 
saw  any  other  bearing  than  such  as  an  austere,  though  just 
guardian,  might  have  observed  towards  them.  If  any  doubt 
the  accuracy  of  this  assertion,  as  inferring  more  conscientious 
self-denial  or  Scipio-like  self-control  than  they  feel  disposed 
to  give  me  credit  for,  let  them  take  into  consideration  the 
following  circumstances,  which,  while  detracting  from  my 
merit,  justify  my  veracity. 

Know,  O  incredulous  reader  !  that  a  master  stands  in  a 
somewhat  different  relation  towards  a  pretty,  light-headed, 
probably  ignorant  girl,  to  that  occupied  by  a  partner  at  a 
ball,  or  a  gallant  on  the  promenade.  A  professor  does  not 
meet  his  pupil  to  see  her  dressed  in  satin  and  muslin,  with 
hair  perfumed  and  curled,  neck  scarcely  shaded  by  aerial 
lace,  round  white  arms  circled  with  bracelets,  feet  dressed  for 
the  gliding  dance.  It  is  not  his  business  to  whirl  her  through 
the  waltz,  to  feed  her  with  compliments,  to  heighten  her 
beauty  by  the  flush  of  gratified  vanity.  Neither  does  he 
encounter  her  on  the  smooth-rolled,  tree-shaded  Boulevard, 
in  the  green  and  sunny  park,  whither  she  repairs  clad  in  her 
becoming  walking-dress,  her  scarf  thrown  with  grace  over 
her  shoulders,  her  little  bonnet  scarcely  screening  her  curls, 
the  red  rose  under  its  brim  adding  a  new  tint  to  the  softer 
rose  on  her  cheek  ;  her  face  and  eyes,  too,  illumined  with 
smiles,  perhaps  as  transient  as  the  sunshine  of  the  gala-day, 
but  also  quite  as  brilliant ;  it  is  not  his  office  to  walk  by  her 
side,  to  listen  to  her  lively  chat,  to  carry  her  parasol,  scarcely 
larger  than  a  broad  green  leaf,  to  lead  in  a  ribbon  her 
Blenheim  spaniel  or  Italian  greyhound.  No  :  he  finds  her 
in  the  schoolroom,  plainly  dressed,  with  books  before  her. 
Owing  to  her  education  or  her  nature  books  are  to  her  a 
nuisance,  and  she  opens  them  with  aversion,  yet  her  teacher 


122  THE  PROFESSOR 

must  instil  into  her  mind  the  contents  of  these  books ;  that 
mind  resists  the  admission  of  grave  information,  it  recoils,  it 
grows  restive,  sullen  tempers  are  shown,  disfiguring  frowns 
spoil  the  symmetry  of  the  face,  sometimes  coarse  gestures 
banish  grace  from  the  deportment,  while  muttered  expres- 
sions, redolent  of  native  and  ineradicable  vulgarity,  desecrate 
the  sweetness  of  the  voice.  Where  the  temperament  is 
serene  though  the  intellect  be  sluggish,  an  unconquerable 
dulness  opposes  every  effort  to  instruct.  Where  there  is 
cunning  but  not  energy,  dissimulation,  falsehood,  a  thousand 
schemes  and  tricks  are  put  in  play  to  evade  the  necessity  of 
application ;  in  short,  to  the  tutor,  female  youth,  female 
charms  are  like  tapestry  hangings,  of  which  the  wrong  side 
is  continually  turned  towards  him  ;  and  even  when  he  sees 
the  smooth,  neat  external  surface,  he  so  well  knows  what 
knots,  long  stitches,  and  jagged  ends  are  behind  that  he  has 
scarce  a  temptation  to  admire  too  fondly  the  seemly  forms 
and  bright  colours  exposed  to  general  view. 

Our  likings  are  regulated  by  our  circumstances.  The 
artist  prefers  a  hilly  country  because  it  is  picturesque ;  the 
engineer  a  flat  one  because  it  is  convenient ;  the  man  of 
pleasure  likes  what  he  calls  '  a  fine  woman  ' — she  suits  him  ; 
the  fashionable  young  gentleman  admires  the  fashionable 
young  lady — she  is  of  his  kind ;  the  toil-worn,  fagged, 
probably  irritable  tutor,  blind  almost  to  beauty,  insensible 
to  airs  and  graces,  glories  chiefly  in  certain  mental  qualities : 
application,  love  of  knowledge,  natural  capacity,  docility, 
truthfulness,  gratefulness,  are  the  charms  that  attract  his 
notice  and  win  his  regard.  These  he  seeks,  but  seldom 
meets ;  these,  if  by  chance  he  finds,  he  would  fain  retain  for 
ever,  and  when  separation  deprives  him  of  them  he  feels  a;; 
if  some  ruthless  hand  had  snatched  from  him  his  only  ewe- 
lamb.  Such  being  the  case,  and  the  case  it  is,  my  readers 
will  agree  with  me  that  there  was  nothing  either  very 
meritorious  or  very  marvellous  in  the  integrity  and  modera- 
tion of  my  conduct  at  Mdlle.  Keuter's  pensionnat  de 
demoiselles. 


THE   PEOFESSOR  123 

My  first  business  this  afternoon  consisted  in  reading  the 
list  of  places  for  the  month,  determined  by  the  relative 
coiTectness  of  the  compositions  given  the  preceding  day. 
The  list  was  headed,  as  usual,  by  the  name  of  Sylvie,  that 
plain,  quiet  little  girl  I  have  described  before  as  being  at 
once  the  best  and  ugliest  pupil  in  the  establishment;  the 
second  place  had  fallen  to  the  lot  of  a  certain  L6onie  Ledru, 
a  diminutive,  sharp-featured,  and  parchment-skinned  creature 
of  quick  wits,  frail  conscience,  and  indurated  feelings ;  a 
lawyer-like  thing,  of  whom  I  used  to  say  that,  had  she  been 
a  boy,  she  would  have  made  a  model  of  an  unprincipled, 
clever  attorney.  Then  came  Eulalie,  the  proud  beauty,  the 
Juno  of  the  school,  whom  six  long  years  of  drilling  in  the 
simple  grammar  of  the  English  language  had  compelled, 
despite  the  stiff  phlegm  of  her  intellect,  to  acquire  a  mechanical 
acquaintance  with  most  of  its  rules.  No  smile,  no  trace  of 
pleasure  or  satisfaction  appeared  in  Sylvie's  nun-like  and 
passive  face  as  she  heard  her  name  read  first.  I  always  felt 
saddened  by  the  sight  of  that  poor  girl's  absolute  quiescence 
on  all  occasions,  and  it  was  my  custom  to  look  at  her,  to 
address  her,  as  seldom  as  possible ;  her  extreme  docility,  her 
assiduous  perseverance,  would  have  recommended  her  warmly 
to  my  good  opinion  ;  her  modesty,  her  intelligence,  would  have 
induced  me  to  feel  most  kindly — most  affectionately  towards 
her,  notwithstanding  the  almost  ghastly  plainness  of  her 
features,  the  disproportion  of  her  form,  the  corpse-like  lack 
of  animation  in  her  countenance,  had  I  not  been  aware  that 
evei'y  friendly  word,  evei'y  kindly  action,  would  be  reported 
by  her  to  her  confessor,  and  by  him  misinterpi'eted  and 
poisoned.  Once  I  laid  my  hand  on  her  head,  in  token  of 
approbation  ;  I  thought  Sylvie  was  going  to  smile,  her  dim 
eye  almost  kindled  ;  but,  presently,  she  shrank  from  me ;  I 
was  a  man  and  a  heretic ;  she,  poor  child  !  a  destined  nun 
and  devoted  Catholic  :  thus  a  four-fold  wall  of  separation 
divided  her  mind  from  mine.  A  pert  smirk,  and  a  hard 
glance  of  triumph,  was  Tronic's  method  of  testifying  her 
gratification  ;  Eulalie  looked  sullen  and  envious — she  had 


124  THE   PROFESSOR 

hoped  to  be  first.  Hortense  and  Caroline  exchanged  a 
reckless  grimace  on  hearing  their  names  read  out  somewhere 
near  the  bottom  of  the  list ;  the  brand  of  mental  inferiority 
was  considered  by  them  as  no  disgrace,  their  hopes  for  the 
future  being  based  solely  on  their  personal  attractions. 

This  affair  arranged,  the  regular  lesson  followed.  During 
a  brief  interval,  employed  by  the  pupils  in  ruling  their  books, 
my  eye,  ranging  carelessly  over  the  benches,  observed,  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  farthest  seat  in  the  farthest  row — a 
seat  usually  vacant — was  again  filled  by  the  new  scholar, 
the  Mdlle.  Henri  so  ostentatiously  recommended  to  me  by 
the  directress.  To-day  I  had  on  my  spectacles  ;  her  appear- 
ance, therefore,  was  clear  to  me  at  the  first  glance  ;  I  had 
not  to  puzzle  over  it.  She  looked  young ;  yet,  had  I  been 
required  to  name  her  exact  age,  I  should  have  been  some- 
what nonplussed  ;  the  slightness  of  her  figure  might  have 
sviited  seventeen  ;  a  certain  anxious  and  preoccupied  expres- 
sion of  face  seemed  the  indication  of  riper  years.  She  was 
dressed,  like  all  the  rest,  in  a  dark  stun0  gown  and  a  white 
collar  ;  her  features  were  dissimilar  to  any  there,  not  so 
rounded,  more  defined,  yet  scarcely  regular.  The  shape  of 
her  head  too  was  different,  the  superior  part  more  developed, 
the  base  considerably  less.  I  felt  assured,  at  first  sight,  that 
she  was  not  a  Belgian  ;  her  complexion,  her  countenance, 
her  lineaments,  her  figure,  were  all  distinct  from  theirs,  and 
evidently  the  type  of  another  race — of  a  race  less  gifted  with 
fulness  of  flesh  and  plenitude  of  blood  ;  less  jocund,  material, 
unthinking.  When  I  first  cast  my  eyes  on  her,  she  sat  looking 
fixedly  down,  her  chin  resting  on  her  hand,  and  she  did  not 
change  her  attitude  till  I  commenced  the  lesson.  None  of 
the  Belgian  girls  would  have  retained  one  position,  and  that 
a  reflective  one,  for  the  same  length  of  time.  Yet,  having 
intimated  that  her  appearance  was  peculiar,  as  being  unlike 
that  of  her  Flemish  companions,  I  have  little  more  to  say 
respecting  it ;  I  can  pronounce  no  encomiums  on  her  beauty, 
lor  she  was  not  beautiful  ;  nor  offer  condolence  on  her  plain- 
ness, for  neither  was  she  plain  ;  a  careworn  character  of 


THE  PROFESSOB  125 

forehead,  and  a  corresponding  moulding  of  the  mouth,  struck 
me  with  a  sentiment  resembling  surprise,  but  these  traits 
would  probably  have  passed  unnoticed  by  any  less  crotchety 
observer. 

Now,  reader,  though  I  have  spent  more  than  a  page  in 
describing  Mdlle.  Henri,  I  know  well  enough  that  I  have 
left  on  your  mind's  eye  no  distinct  picture  of  her ;  I  have 
not  painted  her  complexion,  nor  her  eyes,  nor  her  hair,  nor 
even  drawn  the  outline  of  her  shape.  You  cannot  tell 
whether  her  nose  was  aquiline  or  retrousse",  whether  her 
chin  was  long  or  short,  her  face  square  or  oval ;  nor  could  I 
the  first  day,  and  it  is  not  my  intention  to  communicate  to 
you  at  once  a  knowledge  I  myself  gained  by  little  and  little. 

I  gave  a  short  exercise  which  they  all  wrote  down.  I 
saw  the  new  pupil  was  puzzled  at  first  with  the  novelty  of 
the  form  and  language  ;  once  or  twice  she  looked  at  me  with 
a  sort  of  painful  solicitude,  as  not  comprehending  at  all 
what  I  meant ;  then  she  was  not  ready  when  the  others 
were,  she  could  not  write  her  phrases  so  fast  as  they  did ;  I 
would  not  help  her,  I  went  on  relentless.  She  looked  at 
me ;  her  eye  said  most  plainly,  '  I  cannot  follow  you.'  I 
disregarded  the  appeal,  and,  carelessly  leaning  back  in  my 
chair,  glancing  from  time  to  time  with  a  nonchalant  air  out 
of  the  window,  I  dictated  a  little  faster.  On  looking 
towards  her  again,  I  perceived  her  face  clouded  with 
embarrassment,  but  she  was  still  writing  on  most  diligently ; 
I  paused  a  few  seconds ;  she  employed  the  interval  in 
hurriedly  re-perusing  what  she  had  written,  and  shame  and 
discomfiture  were  apparent  in  her  countenance ;  she  evi- 
dently found  she  had  made  great  nonsense  of  it.  In  ten 
minutes  more  the  dictation  was  complete,  and,  having 
allowed  a  brief  space  in  which  to  correct  it,  I  took  their 
books ;  it  was  with  a  reluctant  hand  Mdlle.  Henri  gave  up 
hers,  but,  having  once  yielded  it  to  my  possession,  she 
composed  her  anxious  face,  as  if,  for  the  present,  she  had 
resolved  to  dismiss  regret,  and  had  made  up  her  mind  to  be 
thought  unprecedentedly  stupid.  Glancing  over  her  exercise* 


126  THE  PROFESSOR 

I  found  that  several  lines  had  been  omitted,  but  what  was 
written  contained  very  few  faults;  I  instantly  inscribed 
'  Bon '  at  the  bottom  of  the  page,  and  returned  it  to  her ; 
she  smiled,  at  first  incredulously,  then  as  if  reassured,  but 
did  not  lift  her  eyes  ;  she  could  look  at  me,  it  seemed,  when 
perplexed  and  bewildered,  but  not  when  gratified ;  I  thought 
that  scarcely  fair. 


CHAPTER  XV 

SOME  time  elapsed  before  I  again  gave  a  lesson  in  the  first 
class ;  the  holiday  of  Whitsuntide  occupied  three  days,  and 
on  the  fourth  it  was  the  turn  of  the  second  division  to 
receive  my  instructions.  As  I  made  the  transit  of  the  carr6, 
I  observed,  as  usual,  the  band  of  sewers  surrounding  Mdlle. 
Henri ;  there  were  only  about  a  dozen  of  them,  but  they 
made  as  much  noise  as  might  have  sufficed  for  fifty ;  they 
seemed  very  little  under  her  control ;  three  or  four  at 
once  assailed  her  with  importunate  requirements ;  she 
looked  harassed,  she  demanded  silence,  but  in  vain.  She 
saw  me,  and  I  read  in  her  eye  pain  that  a  stranger  should 
witness  the  insubordination  of  her  pupils  ;  she  seemed  to 
entreat  order — her  prayers  were  useless  ;  then  I  remarked 
that  she  compressed  her  lips  and  contracted  her  brow ;  and 
her  countenance,  if  I  read  it  correctly,  said — '  I  have  done 
my  best ;  I  seem  to  merit  blame  notwithstanding  ;  blame  me 
then  who  will.'  I  passed  on ;  as  I  closed  the  schoolroom 
door,  I  heard  her  say,  suddenly  and  sharply,  addressing  one 
of  the  eldest  and  most  turbulent  of  the  lot,  '  Amelie  Mullen- 
berg,  ask  me  no  question,  and  request  of  me  no  assistance 
for  a  week  to  come  ;  during  that  space  of  time  I  will  neither 
speak  to  you  nor  help  you.' 

The  words  were  uttered  with  emphasis — nay,  with 
vehemence — and  a  comparative  silence  followed ;  whether 
the  calm  was  permanent,  I  know  not ;  two  doors  now  closed 
between  me  and  the  carr6. 

Next  day  was  appropriated  to  the  first  class  ;  on  my 
arrival,  I  found  the  directress  seated,  as  usual,  in  a  chair 


128  THE   PROFESSOR 

between  the  two  estrades,  and  before  her  was  standing 
Mdlle.  Henri,  in  an  attitude  (as  it  seemed  to  me)  of  some- 
what reluctant  attention.  The  directress  was  knitting  and 
talking  at  the  same  time.  Amidst  the  hum  of  a  large 
schoolroom,  it  was  easy  so  to  speak  in  the  ear  of  one  person 
as  to  be  heard  by  that  person  alone,  and  it  was  thus  Mdlle. 
Reuter  parleyed  with  her  teacher.  The  face  of  the  latter 
was  a  little  flushed,  not  a  little  troubled  ;  there  was  vexation 
in  it,  whence  resulting  I  know  not,  for  the  directress  looked 
very  placid  indeed ;  she  could  not  be  scolding  in  such  gentle 
whispers,  and  with  so  equable  a  mien  ;  no,  it  was  presently 
proved  that  her  discourse  had  been  of  the  most  friendly 
tendency,  for  I  heard  the  closing  words,  '  C'est  assez,  ma 
bonne  amie ;  a  present  je  ne  veux  pas  vous  retenir  davan- 
tage.' 

Without  reply,  Mdlle.  Henri  turned  away  ;  dissatisfac- 
tion was  plainly  evinced  in  her  face,  and  a  smile,  slight  and 
brief,  but  bitter,  distrustful,  and,  I  thought,  scornful,  curled 
her  lip  as  she  took  her  place  in  the  class ;  it  was  a  secret, 
involuntary  smile,  which  lasted  but  a  second  ;  an  air  of 
depression  succeeded,  chased  away  presently  by  one  of 
attention  and  interest,  when  I  gave  the  word  for  all  the 
pupils  to  take  their  reading-books.  In  general  I  hated  the 
reading-lesson,  it  was  such  a  torture  to  the  ear  to  listen  to 
their  uncouth  mouthing  of  my  native  tongue,  and  no  effort  of 
example  or  precept  on  my  part  ever  seemed  to  effect  the 
slightest  improvement  in  their  accent.  To-day,  each  in  her 
appropriate  key,  lisped,  stuttered,  mumbled,  and  jabbered  as 
usual ;  about  fifteen  had  racked  me  in  turn,  and  my  auri- 
cular nerve  was  expecting  with  resignation  the  discords  of  the 
sixteenth,  when  a  full,  though  low  voice,  read  out,  in  clear, 
correct  English,  '  On  his  way  to  Perth,  the  king  was  met  by 
a  Highland  woman,  calling  herself  a  prophetess ;  she  stood 
at  the  side  of  the  ferry  by  which  he  was  about  to  travel  to 
the  north,  and  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  "  My  lord  the  king,  if 
you  pass  this  water  you  will  never  return  again  alive !  " 
(vide  the  '  History  of  Scotland  ') 


THE   PEOFESSOE  129 

I  looked  up  in  amazement ;  the  voice  was  a  voice  of 
Albion  ;  the  accent  was  pure  and  silvery ;  it  only  wanted 
firmness  and  assurance  to  be  the  counterpart  of  what  any  well- 
educated  lady  in  Essex  or  Middlesex  might  have  enounced, 
yet  the  speaker  or  reader  was  no  other  than  Mdlle.  Henri,  in 
whose  grave,  joyless  face  I  saw  no  mark  of  consciousness 
that  she  had  performed  any  extraordinary  feat.  No  one 
else  evinced  surprise  either.  Mdlle.  Eeuter  knitted  away 
assiduously ;  I  was  aware,  however,  that  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  paragraph  she  had  lifted  her  eyelid  and  honoured  me 
with  a  glance  sideways ;  she  did  not  know  the  full  ex- 
cellency of  the  teacher's  style  of  reading,  but  she  perceived 
that  her  accent  was  not  that  of  the  others,  and  wanted  to 
discover  what  I  thought ;  I  masked  my  visage  with  indif- 
ference, and  ordered  the  next  girl  to  proceed. 

When  the  lesson  was  over,  I  took  advantage  of  the  con- 
fusion caused  by  breaking  up  to  approach  Mdlle.  Henri ;  she 
was  standing  near  the  window,  and  retired  as  I  advanced ; 
she  thought  I  wanted  to  look  out,  and  did  not  imagine  that  I 
could  have  anything  to  say  to  her.  I  took  her  exercise-book 
out  of  her  hand ;  as  I  turned  over  the  leaves  I  addressed 
her :  '  You  have  had  lessons  in  English  before  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  No,  sir." 

'  No !  you  read  it  well ;  you  have  been  in  England  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no ! '  with  some  animation. 

1  You  have  been  in  English  families  ?  ' 

Still  the  answer  was  '  No.'  Here  my  eye,  resting  on  the 
flyleaf  of  the  book,  saw  written,  '  Frances  Evans  Henri.' 

'  Your  name  ? '  I  asked. 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

My  interrogations  were  cut  short ;  I  heard  a  little  rustling 
behind  me,  and  close  at  my  back  was  the  directress,  pro- 
fessing to  be  examining  the  interior  of  a  desk. 

'  Mademoiselle,'  said  she,  looking  up  and  addressing  the 
teacher,  '  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  go  and  stand  in  the 
corridor,  while  the  young  ladies  are  putting  on  their  things, 
and  try  to  keep  some  order  ?  ' 


130  THE  PROFESSOR 

Mdlle.  Henri  obeyed. 

'  What  splendid  weather ! '  observed  the  directress  cheer- 
fully, glancing  at  the  same  time  from  the  window.  I 
assented  and  was  withdrawing.  '  What  of  your  new  pupil, 
Monsieur?'  continued  she,  following  my  retreating  steps. 
1  Is  she  likely  to  make  progress  in  English  ?  ' 

'  Indeed  I  can  hardly  judge.  She  possesses  a  pretty  good 
accent ;  of  her  real  knowledge  of  the  language  I  have  as 
yet  had  no  opportunity  of  forming  an  opinion.' 

'  And  her  natural  capacity,  Monsieur  ?  I  have  had  my 
fears  about  that :  can  you  relieve  me  by  an  assurance  at 
least  of  its  average  power  ?  ' 

'  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  its  average  power,  Mademoiselle, 
but  really  I  scarcely  know  her,  and  have  not  had  time  to 
study  the  calibre  of  her  capacity.  I  wish  you  a  very  good 
afternoon.' 

She  still  pursued  me.  '  You  will  observe,  Monsieur,  and 
tell  me  what  you  think ;  I  could  so  much  better  rely  on  your 
opinion  than  on  my  own  ;  women  cannot  judge  of  these  things 
as  men  can,  and,  excuse  my  pertinacity,  Monsieur,  but  it  is 
natm'al  I  should  feel  interested  about  this  poor  little  girl 
(pauvre  petite) ;  she  has  scarcely  any  relations,  her  own 
efforts  are  all  she  has  to  look  to,  her  acquirements  must  be 
her  sole  fortune ;  her  present  position  has  once  been  mine, 
or  nearly  so ;  it  is  then  but  natural  I  should  sympathize 
with  her ;  and  sometimes,  when  I  see  the  difficulty  she  has 
in  managing  pupils,  I  feel  quite  chagrined.  I  doubt  not  she 
does  her  best,  her  intentions  are  excellent ;  but,  Monsieur, 
she  wants  tact  and  firmness.  I  have  talked  to  her  on  the 
subject,  but  I  am  not  fluent,  and  probably  did  not  express 
myself  with  clearness  ;  she  never  appears  to  comprehend  me. 
Now,  would  you  occasionally,  when  you  see  an  opportunity, 
slip  in  a  word  of  advice  to  her  on  the  subject ;  men  have  so 
much  more  influence  than  women  have — they  argue  so  much 
more  logically  than  we  do  ;  and  you,  Monsieur,  in  particular, 
have  so  paramount  a  power  of  making  yourself  obeyed  ;  a 
word  of  advice  from  you  could  not  but  do  her  good ;  even  if 


THE   PROFESSOR  131 

she  were  sullen  and  headstrong  (which  I  hope  she  is  not) 
she  would  scarcely  refuse  to  listen  to  you  ;  for  my  own  part, 
I  can  truly  say  that  I  never  attend  one  of  your  lessons  with- 
out deriving  benefit  from  witnessing  your  management  of 
the  pupils.  The  other  masters  are  a  constant  source  of 
anxiety  to  me ;  they  cannot  impress  the  young  ladies  with 
sentiments  of  respect,  nor  restrain  the  levity  natural  to 
youth  :  in  you,  Monsieur,  I  feel  the  most  absolute  confidence  ; 
try  then  to  put  this  poor  child  into  the  way  of  controlling  our 
giddy,  high-spirited  Brabantoises.  But,  Monsieur,  I  would 
add  one  word  more  ;  don't  alarm  her  amour  proprc ;  beware 
of  inflicting  a  wound  there.  I  reluctantly  admit  that  in  that 
particular  she  is  blamably — some  would  say  ridiculously 
— susceptible.  I  fear  I  have  touched  this  sore  point  inad- 
vertently, and  she  cannot  get  over  it.' 

During  the  greater  part  of  this  harangue  my  hand  was 
on  the  lock  of  the  outer  door ;  I  now  turned  it. 

'  Au  revoir,  Mademoiselle,'  said  I,  and  I  escaped.  I  saw 
the  directress's  stock  of  words  was  yet  far  from  exhausted. 
She  looked  after  me,  she  would  fain  have  detained  me 
longer.  Her  manner  towards  me  had  been  altered  ever 
since  I  had  begun  to  treat  her  with  hardness  and  indif- 
ference :  she  almost  cringed  to  me  on  every  occasion  ;  she 
consulted  my  countenance  incessantly,  and  beset  me  with 
innumerable  little  officious  attentions.  Servility  creates 
despotism.  This  slavish  homage,  instead  of  softening  my 
heart,  only  pampered  whatever  was  stern  and  exacting  in  its 
mood.  The  very  circumstance  of  her  hovering  round  me 
like  a  fascinated  bird,  seemed  to  transform  me  into  a  rigid 
pillar  of  stone  ;  her  flatteries  irritated  my  scorn,  her  blandish- 
ments confirmed  my  reserve.  At  times  I  wondered  what  she 
meant  by  giving  herself  such  trouble  to  win  me,  when  the 
more  pi'ofitable  Pelet  was  already  in  her  nets,  and  when,  too, 
she  was  aware  that  I  possessed  her  secret,  for  I  had  not 
scrupled  to  tell  her  as  much  :  but  the  fact  is,  that  as  it  was 
her  nature  to  doubt  the  reality  and  undervalue  the  worth 
of  modesty,  affection,  disinterestedness — to  regard  these 


132  THE  PKOFESSOB 

qualities  as  foibles  of  character — so  it  was  equally  her 
tendency  to  consider  pride,  hardness,  selfishness,  as  proofs 
of  strength.  She  would  trample  on  the  neck  of  humility, 
she  would  kneel  at  the  feet  of  disdain ;  she  would  meet 
tenderness  with  secret  contempt,  indifference  she  would  woo 
with  ceaseless  assiduities.  Benevolence,  devotedness, 
enthusiasm,  were  her  antipathies ;  for  dissimulation  and 
self-interest  she  had  a  preference — they  were  real  wisdom  in 
her  eyes ;  moral  and  physical  degradation,  mental  and 
bodily  inferiority,  she  regarded  with  indulgence ;  they  were 
foils  capable  of  being  turned  to  good  account  as  set-offs  for 
her  own  endowments.  To  violence,  injustice,  tyranny,  she 
succumbed — they  were  her  natural  masters  ;  she  had  no 
propensity  to  hate,  no  impulse  to  resist  them  ;  the  indigna- 
tion their  behests  awake  in  some  hearts  was  unknown  in 
hers.  From  all  this  it  resulted  that  the  false  and  selfish 
called  her  wise,  the  vulgar  and  debased  termed  her 
charitable,  the  insolent  and  unjust  dubbed  her  amiable,  the 
conscientious  and  benevolent  generally  at  first  accepted  as 
valid  her  claim  to  be  considered  one  of  themselves  ;  but  ere 
long  the  plating  of  pretension  wore  off,  the  real  material 
appeared  below,  and  they  laid  her  aside  as  a  deception. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  the  course  of  another  fortnight  I  had  seen  sufficient  of 
Frances  Evans  Henri  to  enable  me  to  form  a  more  definite 
opinion  of  her  character.  I  found  her  possessed  in  a  some- 
what remarkable  degree  of  at  least  two  good  points,  viz. 
perseverance  and  a  sense  of  duty ;  I  found  she  was  really 
capable  of  applying  to  study,  of  contending  with  difficulties. 
At  first  I  offered  her  the  same  help  which  I  had  always  found 
it  necessary  to  confer  on  the  others  ;  I  began  with  unloosing 
for  her  each  knotty  point,  but  I  soon  discovered  that  such 
help  was  regarded  by  my  new  pupil  as  degrading  ;  she  recoiled 
from  it  with  a  certain  proud  impatience.  Hereupon  I 
appointed  her  long  lessons,  and  left  her  to  solve  alone  any 
perplexities  they  might  present.  She  set  to  the  task  with 
serious  ardour,  and  having  quickly  accomplished  one  labour, 
eagerly  demanded  more.  So  much  for  her  perseverance ; 
as  to  her  sense  of  duty,  it  evinced  itself  thus  :  she  liked  to 
learn,  but  hated  to  teach ;  her  progress  as  a  pupil  depended 
upon  herself,  and  I  saw  that  on  herself  she  could  calculate 
with  certainty  ;  her  success  as  a  teacher  rested  partly,  perhaps 
chiefly,  upon  the  will  of  others  ;  it  cost  her  a  most  painful 
effort  to  enter  into  conflict  with  this  foreign  will,  to  endeavour 
to  bend  it  into  subjection  to  her  own ;  for  in  what  regarded 
people  in  general  the  action  of  her  will  was  impeded  by  many 
scruples  ;  it  was  as  unembarrassed  as  strong  where  her  own 
affairs  were  concerned,  and  to  it  she  could  at  any  time  subject 
her  inclination,  if  that  inclination  went  counter  to  her 
convictions  of  right ;  yet  when  called  upon  to  wrestle  with 
the  propensities,  the  habits,  the  faults  of  others,  of  children 


134  THE  PROFESSOR 

especially,  who  are  deaf  to  reason,  and,  for  the  most  part, 
insensate  to  persuasion,  her  will  sometimes  almost  refused  to 
act ;  then  came  in  the  sense  of  duty,  and  forced  the  reluctant 
will  into  operation.  A  wasteful  expense  of  energy  and  labour 
was  frequently  the  consequence  ;  Frances  toiled  for  and  with 
her  pupils  like  a  drudge,  but  it  was  long  ere  her  conscientious 
exertions  were  rewarded  by  anything  like  docility  on  their 
part,  because  they  saw  that  they  had  power  over  her, 
inasmuch  as  by  resisting  her  painful  attempts  to  convince, 
persuade,  control — by  forcing  her  to  the  employment  of 
coercive  measures — they  could  inflict  upon  her  exquisite 
suffering.  Human  beings — human  children  especially 
— seldom  deny  themselves  the  pleasure  of  exercising  a  power 
which  they  are  conscious  of  possessing,  even  though  that 
power  consist  only  in  a  capacity  to  make  others  wretched  ; 
a  pupil  whose  sensations  are  duller  than  those  of  his 
instructor,  while  his  nerves  are  tougher  and  his  bodily 
strength  perhaps  greater,  has  an  immense  advantage  over  that 
instructor,  and  he  will  generally  use  it  relentlessly,  because 
the  very  young,  very  healthy,  very  thoughtless,  know  neither 
how  to  sympathize  nor  how  to  spare.  Frances,  I  fear, 
suffered  much  ;  a  continual  weight  seemed  to  oppress  her 
spirits ;  I  have  said  she  did  not  live  in  the  house,  and  whether 
in  her  own  abode,  wherever  that  might  be,  she  wore  the  same 
preoccupied,  unsmiling,  sorrowfully  resolved  air  that  always 
shaded  her  features  under  the  roof  of  Mdlle.  Reuter,  I  could 
not  tell. 

One  day  I  gave,  as  a  devoir,  the  trite  little  anecdote  of 
Alfred  tending  cakes  in  the  herdsman's  hut,  to  be  related 
with  amplifications.  A  singular  affair  most  of  the  pupils 
made  of  it ;  brevity  was  what  they  had  chiefly  studied  ;  the 
majority  of  the  narratives  were  perfectly  unintelligible  ;  those 
of  Sylvie  and  L6onie  Ledru  alone  pretended  to  anything  like 
sense  and  connection.  Eulalie,  indeed,  had  hit  upon  a  clever 
expedient  for  at  once  ensuring  accuracy  and  saving  trouble  ; 
she  had  obtained  access  somehow  to  an  abridged  history  of 
England,  and  had  copied  the  anecdote  out  fair.  I  wrote  on 


THE   PROFESSOR  135 

the  margin  of  her  production  '  Stupid  and  deceitful,'  and 
then  tore  it  down  the  middle. 

Last  in  the  pile  of  single-leaved  devoirs,  I  found  one  of 
several  sheets,  neatly  written  out  and  stitched  together ;  I 
knew  the  hand,  and  scarcely  needed  the  evidence  of  the 
signature,  '  Frances  Evans  Henri,'  to  confirm  my  conjecture 
as  to  the  writer's  identity. 

Night  was  my  usual  time  for  correcting  devoirs,  and  my 
own  room  the  usual  scene  of  such  task — task  most  onerous 
hitherto ;  and  it  seemed  strange  to  me  to  feel  rising  within 
me  an  incipient  sense  of  interest,  as  I  snuffed  the  candle  and 
addressed  myself  to  the  perusal  of  the  poor  teacher's 
manuscript. 

1  Now,'  thought  I,  '  I  shall  see  a  glimpse  of  what  she 
really  is  ;  I  shall  get  an  idea  of  the  nature  and  extent  of  her 
powers  ;  not  that  she  can  be  expected  to  express  herself  well 
in  a  foreign  tongue,  but  still,  if  she  has  any  mind,  here  will 
be  a  reflection  of  it.' 

The  narrative  commenced  by  a  description  of  a  Saxon 
peasant's  hut,  situated  within  the  confines  of  a  great,  leafless, 
winter  forest ;  it  represented  an  evening  in  December ;  flakes 
of  snow  were  falling,  and  the  herdsman  foretold  a  heavy 
storm ;  he  summoned  his  wife  to  aid  him  in  collecting  their 
flock,  roaming  far  away  on  the  pastoral  banks  of  the  Thone  ; 
he  warns  her  that  it  will  be  late  ere  they  return.  The  good 
woman  is  reluctant  to  quit  her  occupation  of  baking  cakes 
for  the  evening  meal ;  but  acknowledging  the  primary 
importance  of  securing  the  herds  and  flocks,  she  puts  on  her 
sheep-skin  mantle  ;  and,  addressing  a  stranger,  who  rests 
half  reclined  on  a  bed  of  rushes  near  the  hearth,  bids  him 
mind  the  bread  till  her  return. 

1  Take  cave,  young  man,'  she  continues,  '  that  you  fasten 
the  door  well  after  us  ;  and,  above  all,  open  to  none  in  our 
absence  ;  whatever  sound  you  hear,  stir  not,  and  look  not 
out.  The  night  will  soon  fall ;  this  forest  is  most  wild  and 
lonely ;  strange  noises  are  often  heard  therein  after  sunset ; 
wolves  haunt  these  glades,  and  Danish  warriors  infest  the 


136  THE   PROFESSOR 

country  ;  worse  things  are  talked  of ;  you  might  chance  to 
hear,  as  it  were,  a  child  cry,  and  on  opening  the  door  to  afford 
it  succour,  a  gi*eat  black  bull,  or  a  shadowy  goblin  dog,  might 
rush  over  the  threshold  ;  or,  more  awful  still,  if  something 
flapped,  as  with  wings,  against  the  lattice,  and  then  a  raven 
or  a  white  dove  flew  in  and  settled  on  the  hearth,  such  a 
visitor  would  be  a  sure  sign  of  misfortune  to  the  house  ; 
therefore,  heed  my  advice,  and  lift  the  latchet  for  nothing.' 

Her  husband  calls  her  away,  both  depart.  The  stranger, 
left  alone,  listens  awhile  to  the  muffled  snow- wind,  the  remote, 
swollen  sound  of  the  river,  then  lie  speaks. 

'  It  is  Christmas  eve,'  says  he,  '  I  mark  the  date  ;  here  I 
sit  alone  on  a  rude  couch  of  rushes,  sheltered  by  the  thatch  of 
a  herdsman's  hut ;  I,  whose  inheritance  was  a  kingdom,  owe 
my  night's  harbourage  to  a  poor  serf ;  my  throne  is  usurped, 
my  crown  presses  the  brow  of  an  invader  ;  I  have  no  friends  ; 
my  troops  wander  broken  in  the  hills  of  Wales ;  reckless 
robbers  spoil  my  country  ;  my  subjects  lie  prostrate,  their 
breasts  crushed  by  the  heel  of  the  brutal  Dane.  Fate !  thou 
hast  done  thy  worst,  and  now  thou  standest  before  me  resting 
thy  hand  on  thy  blunted  blade.  Ay  ;  I  see  thine  eye  con- 
front mine  and  demand  why  I  still  live,  why  I  still  hope. 
Pagan  demon,  I  credit  not  thine  omnipotence,  and  so  cannot 
succumb  to  thy  power.  My  God,  whose  Son,  as  on  this 
night,  took  on  Him  the  form  of  man,  and  for  man  vouchsafed 
to  suffer  and  bleed,  controls  thy  hand,  and  without  His  behest 
thou  canst  not  strike  a  stroke.  My  God  is  sinless,  eternal, 
all-wise — in  Him  is  my  trust ;  and  though  stripped  and 
crushed  by  thee — though  naked,  desolate,  void  of  resource — 
I  do  not  despair,  I  cannot  despair  :  were  the  lance  of  Guthrum 
now  wet  with  my  blood,  I  should  not  despair.  I  watch,  I 
toil,  I  hope,  I  pray;  Jehovah,  in  His  own  time,  will  aid.' 

I  need  not  continue  the  quotation  ;  the  whole  devoir 
was  in  the  same  strain.  There  were  errors  of  orthography, 
there  were  foreign  idioms,  there  were  some  faults  of 
construction,  there  were  verbs  irregular  transformed  into 
verbs  regular  ;  it  was  mostly  made  up,  as  the  above  example 


THE   PEOFESSOR  137 

shows,  of  short  and  somewhat  rude  sentences,  and  the  style 
stood  in  great  need  of  polish  and  sustained  dignity ;  yet 
such  as  it  was,  I  had  hitherto  seen  nothing  like  it  in  the 
course  of  my  professorial  experience.  The  girl's  mind  had 
conceived  a  picture  of  the  hut,  of  the  two  peasants,  of  the 
crownless  king ;  she  had  imagined  the  wintry  forest,  she  had 
recalled  the  old  Saxon  ghost-legends,  she  had  appreciated 
Alfred's  courage  under  calamity,  she  had  remembered  his 
Christian  education,  and  had  shown  him,  with  the  rooted 
confidence  of  those  primitive  days,  relying  on  the  scriptural 
Jehovah  for  aid  against  the  mythological  Destiny.  This  she 
had  done  without  a  hint  from  me :  I  had  given  the  subject, 
but  not  said  a  word  about  the  manner  of  treating  it. 

'  I  will  find,  or  make,  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her,'  I 
said  to  myself  as  I  rolled  the  devoir  up  ;  '  I  will  learn  what 
she  has  of  English  in  her  besides  the  name  of  Frances  Evans ; 
she  is  no  novice  in  the  language,  that  is  evident,  yet  she  told 
me  she  had  neither  been  in  England,  nor  taken  lessons  in 
English,  nor  lived  in  English  families.' 

In  the  course  of  my  next  lesson,  I  made  a  report  of  the 
other  devoirs,  dealing  out  praise  and  blame  in  very  small  retail 
parcels,  according  to  my  custom,  for  there  was  no  use  in 
blaming  severely,  and  high  encomiums  were  rarely  merited. 
I  said  nothing  of  Mdlle.  Henri's  exercise,  and,  spectacles  on 
nose,  I  endeavoured  to  decipher  in  her  countenance  her 
sentiments  at  the  omission.  I  wanted  to  find  out  whether  in 
her  existed  a  consciousness  of  her  own  talents.  '  If  she  thinks 
she  did  a  clever  thing  in  composing  that  devoir,  she  will  now 
look  mortified,'  thought  I.  Grave  as  usual,  almost  sombre, 
was  her  face  ;  as  usual,  her  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  cahier 
open  before  her ;  there  was  something,  I  thought,  of  expec- 
tation in  her  attitude,  as  I  concluded  a  brief  review  of  the 
last  devoir,  and  when,  casting  it  from  me  and  rubbing  my 
hands,  I  bade  them  take  their  grammars,  some  slight  change 
did  pass  over  her  air  and  mien,  as  though  she  now 
relinquished  a  faint  prospect  of  pleasant  excitement ;  she  had 
been  waiting  for  something  to  be  discussed  in  which  she  had. 


138  THE   PROFESSOR 

a  degree  of  interest ;  the  discussion  was  not  to  come  on,  so 
expectation  sank  back,  shrunk  and  sad,  but  attention, 
promptly  tilling  up  the  void,  repaired  in  a  moment  the 
transient  collapse  of  feature ;  still,  I  felt,  rather  than  saw, 
during  the  whole  course  of  the  lesson,  that  a  hope  had  been 
wrenched  from  her,  and  that  if  she  did  not  show  distress,  it 
was  because  she  would  not. 

At  four  o'clock,  when  the  bell  rang  and  the  room  was  in 
immediate  tumult,  instead  of  taking  my  hat  and  starting  from 
the  estrade,  I  sat  still  a  moment.  I  looked  at  Frances,  she 
was  putting  her  books  into  her  cabas  ;  having  fastened  the 
button,  she  raised  her  head  ;  encountering  my  eye,  she  made 
a  quiet,  respectful  obeisance,  as  bidding  good  afternoon,  and 
was  turning  to  depart. 

'  Come  hei-e,"  said  I,  lifting  my  finger  at  the  same  time. 
She  hesitated ;  she  could  not  hear  the  words  amidst  the 
uproar  now  pervading  both  schoolrooms,  I  repeated  the  sign  : 
she  approached ;  again  she  paused  within  half  a  yard  of  the 
estrade,  and  looked  shy,  and  still  doubtful  whether  she  had 
niistaken  my  meaning. 

1  Step  up,'  I  said,  speaking  with  decision.  It  is  the  only 
way  of  dealing  with  diffident,  easily-embarrassed  characters, 
and  with  some  slight  manual  aid  I  presently  got  her  placed 
just  where  I  wanted  her  to  be,  that  is,  between  my  desk  and 
the  window,  where  she  was  screened  from  the  rush  of  the 
second  division,  and  where  no  one  could  sneak  behind  her  to 
listen. 

'  Take  a  seat,'  I  said,  placing  a  tabouret ;  and  I  made  her 
sit  down.  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  would  be  considered  a 
very  strange  thing,  and,  what  was  more,  I  did  not  cave. 
Frances  knew  it  also,  and,  I  fear,  by  an  appearance  of 
agitation  and  trembling,  that  she  cared  much.  I  drew  from 
my  pocket  the  rolled-up  devoir. 

'  This  is  yours,  I  suppose  ? '  said  I,  addressing  her  in 
English,  for  I  now  felt  sure  she  could  speak  English. 

'  Yes,'  she  answered  distinctly;  and  as  I  unrolled  it  and 
laid  it  out  tiat  on  the  desk  before  her  with  my  hand  upon  it, 


THE  PKOFESSOK  139 

and  a  pencil  in  that  hand,  I  saw  her  moved,  and,  as  it  were, 
kindled;  her  depression  beamed  as  a  cloud  might  behind 
which  the  sun  is  burning. 

1  This  devoir  has  numerous  faults,'  said  I.  '  It  will  take 
you  some  years  of  careful  study  before  you  are  in  a  condition 
to  write  English  with  absolute  correctness.  Attend  :  I  will 
point  out  some  principal  defects.'  And  I  went  through  it 
carefully,  noting  every  error,  and  demonstrating  why  they 
were  errors,  and  how  the  words  or  phrases  ought  to  have 
been  written.  In  the  course  of  this  sobering  process  she 
became  calm.  I  now  went  on  : — '  As  to  the  substance  of  your 
devoir,  Mdlle.  Henri,  it  has  surprised  me  ;  I  perused  it  with 
pleasure,  because  I  saw  in  it  some  proofs  of  taste  and  fancy. 
Taste  and  fancy  are  not  the  highest  gifts  of  the  human  mind, 
but  such  as  they  are  you  possess  them — not  probably  in  a 
paramount  degree,  but  in  a  degree  beyond  what  the  majority 
can  boast.  You  may  then  take  courage ;  cultivate  the 
faculties  that  God  and  nature  have  bestowed  on  you,  and  do 
not  fear  in  any  crisis  of  suffering,  under  any  pressure  of 
injustice,  to  derive  free  and  full  consolation  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  their  strength  and  rarity.' 

'  Strength  and  rarity ! '  I  repeated  to  myself ;  '  ay,  the 
words  are  probably  true,'  for  on  looking  up,  I  saw  the  sun 
had  dissevered  its  screening  cloud,  her  countenance  was 
transfigured,  a  smile  shone  in  her  eyes— a  smile  almost 
triumphant ;  it  seemed  to  say—'  I  am  glad  you  have  been 
forced  to  discover  so  much  of  my  nature  ;  you  need  not  so 
carefully  moderate  your  language.  Do  you  think  I  am  myself 
a  stranger  to  myself  ?  What  you  tell  me  in  terms  so 
qualified,  I  have  known  fully  from  a  child.' 

She  did  say  this  as  plainly  as  a  frank  and  flashing  glance 
could,  but  in  a  moment  the  glow  of  her  complexion,  the 
radiance  of  her  aspect,  had  subsided  ;  if  strongly  conscious  of 
her  talents,  she  was  equally  conscious  of  her  harassing 
defects,  and  the  remembrance  of  these  obliterated  for  a  single 
second,  now  reviving  with  sudden  force,  at  once  subdued  the 
too  vivid  characters  in  which  her  sense  of  her  powers  had 


140  THE 

been  expressed.  So  quick  was  the  revulsion  of  feeling,  I 
had  not  time  to  check  her  triumph  by  reproof  ;  ere  I  could 
contract  my  brows  to  a  frown  she  had  become  serious  and 
almost  mournful-looking. 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  said  she,  rising.  There  was  gratitude 
both  in  her  voice  and  in  the  look  with  which  she  accompanied 
it.  It  was  time,  indeed,  for  our  conference  to  terminate  ;  for, 
when  I  glanced  around,  behold  all  the  boarders  (the  day- 
scholars  had  departed)  were  congregated  within  a  yard  or 
two  of  my  desk,  and  stood  staring  with  eyes  and  mouths 
wide  open ;  the  three  maltresses  formed  a  whispering  knot  in 
one  corner,  and,  close  at  my  elbow,  was  the  directress, 
sitting  on  a  low  chair,  calmly  clipping  the  tassels  of  her 
finished  purse. 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

AFTER  all  I  had  profited  but  imperfectly  by  the  opportunity 
I  had  so  boldly  achieved  of  speaking  to  Mdlle.  Henri ;  it  was 
my  intention  to  ask  her  how  she  came  to  be  possessed  of  two 
English  baptismal  names,  Frances  and  Evans,  in  addition  to 
her  French  surname,  also  whence  she  derived  her  good 
accent.  I  had  forgotten  both  points,  or,  rather,  our  colloquy 
had  been  so  brief  that  I  had  not  had  time  to  bring  them 
forward  ;  moreover,  I  had  not  half  tested  her  powers  of 
speaking  English  ;  all  I  had  drawn  from  her  in  that  language 
were  the  words  '  Yes,'  and  '  Thank  you,  sir.'  '  No  matter,'  I 
reflected.  '  What  has  been  left  incomplete  now,  shall  be 
finished  another  day.'  Nor  did  I  fail  to  keep  the  promise 
thus  made  to  myself.  It  was  difficult  to  get  even  a  few 
words  of  particular  conversation  with  one  pupil  among  so 
many  ;  but,  according  to  the  old  proverb,  '  Where  there  is  a 
will,  there  is  a  way '  ;  and  again  and  again  I  managed  to  find 
an  opportunity  for  exchanging  a  few  words  with  Mdlle. 
Henri,  regardless  that  envy  stared  and  detraction  whispered 
whenever  I  approached  her. 

'Your  book  an  instant.'  Such  was  the  mode  in  which  I 
often  began  these  brief  dialogues  ;  the  time  was  always  just 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  lesson  ;  and  motioning  to  her  to  rise, 
I  installed  myself  in  her  place,  allowing  her  to  stand  de- 
ferentially at  my  side  ;  for  I  esteemed  it  wise  and  right  in  lier 
case  to  enforce  strictly  all  forms  ordinarily  in  use  between 
master  and  pupil ;  the  rather  because  I  perceived  that  in  pro- 
portion as  my  manner  grew  austere  and  magisterial,  hers 


142  THE   PROFESSOR 

became  easy  and  self-possessed — an  odd  contradiction, 
doubtless,  to  the  ordinary  effect  in  such  cases  ;  but  so  it  was. 

'  A  pencil,'  said  I,  holding  out  my  hand  without  looking 
at  her.  (I  am  now  about  to  sketch  a  brief  report  of  the  first 
of  these  conferences.)  She  gave  me  one,  and  while  I 
underlined  some  errors  in  a  grammatical  exercise  she  had 
written,  I  observed — '  You  are  not  a  native  of  Belgium  ?  ' 

'No.' 

1  Nor  of  France  ? ' 

'No.' 

1  Where,  then,  is  your  birthplace  ?  ' 

'  I  was  born  at  Geneva.' 

'You  don't  call  Frances  and  Evans  Swiss  names,  I 
presume  ? ' 

'  No,  sir ;  they  are  English  names.' 

'  Just  so ;  and  is  it  the  custom  of  the  Genevese  to  give 
their  children  English  appellatives  ? ' 

'  Non,  Monsieur  ;  mais — 

'  Speak  English,  if  you  please.' 

1  Mais ' 

'English— 

'  But '  (slowly  and  with  embarrassment)  '  my  parents 
were  not  all  the  two  Genevese.' 

'  Say  both,  instead  of  "  all  the  two,"  Mademoiselle.' 

'  Not  both  Swiss  :  my  mother  was  English.' 

'  Ah  !  and  of  English  extraction  ?  ' 

'  Yes — her  ancestors  were  all  English.' 

'  And  your  father  ?  ' 

'  He  was  Swiss.' 

'  What  besides  ?     What  was  his  profession  ? ' 

'  Ecclesiastic — pastor — he  had  a  church.' 

'  Since  your  mother  is  an  Englishwoman,  why  do  you  not 
speak  English  with  more  facility?' 

'  Maman  est  morte  il  y  a  dix  ans.' 

'  And  you  do  homage  to  her  memory  by  forgetting  her 
language.  Have  the  goodness  to  put  French  out  of  your 
mind  so  long  as  I  converse  with  you — keep  to  English.1 


THE   PROFESSOR  143 

'  C'est  si  difficile,  Monsieur,  quand  on  n'en  a  plus 
1'habitude.' 

'  You  had  the  habitude  formerly,  I  suppose  ?  Now 
answer  me  in  your  mother  tongue.' 

'  Yes,  sir,  I  spoke  the  English  more  than  the  French  when 
I  was  a  child.' 

'  Why  do  you  not  speak  it  now  ? ' 

'  Because  I  have  no  English  friends.' 

1  You  live  with  your  father,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  My  father  is  dead.' 

'  You  have  brothers  and  sisters  ? 

'  Not  one.' 

'  Do  you  live  alone  ? ' 

'  No— I  have  an  aunt — ma  tante  Julienne.' 

1  Your  father's  sister  ? ' 

'  Justement,  Monsieur.' 

'  Is  that  English  ?  ' 

'  No— but  I  forget— 

1  For  which,  Mademoiselle,  if  you  were  a  child  I  should 
certainly  devise  some  slight  punishment ;  at  your  age — you 
must  be  two  or  three  and  twenty,  I  should  think  ? ' 

'  Pas  encore,  Monsieur — en  un  mois  j'aurai  dix-neuf  arts.' 

1  Well,  nineteen  is  a  mature  age,  and,  having  attained  it, 
you  ought  to  be  so  solicitous  for  your  own  improvement,  that 
it  should  not  be  needful  for  a  master  to  remind  you  twice  of  the 
expediency  of  your  speaking  English  whenever  practicable.' 

To  this  wise  speech  I  received  no  answer ;  and,  when  I 
looked  up,  my  pupil  was  smiling  to  herself  a  much-meaning, 
though  not  very  gay  smile  ;  it  seemed  to  say,  '  He  talks  of  he 
knows  not  what : '  it  said  this  so  plainly  that  I  determined 
to  request  information  on  the  point  concerning  which  my 
ignorance  seemed  to  be  thus  tacitly  affirmed. 

'  Are  you  solicitous  for  your  own  improvement  ? ' 

'  Rather.' 

'  How  do  you  prove  it,  Mademoiselle  ? ' 

An  odd  question,  and  bluntly  put ;  it  excited  a  second 
smile. 


144  THE   PROFESSOE 

1  Why,  Monsieur,  I  am  not  inattentive — am  I  ?  I  learn 
my  lessons  well — 

'  Oh,  a  child  can  do  that !     And  what  more  do  you  do  ?  ' 

'  What  more  can  I  do  ? ' 

'  Oh,  certainly,  not  much  ;  but  you  are  a  teacher,  are  you 
not,  as  well  as  a  pupil  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  You  teach  lace-mending  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  A  dull,  stupid  occupation  ;  do  you  like  it  ? ' 

'  No — it  is  tedious.' 

'  Why  do  you  pursue  it  ?  Why  do  you  not  rather  teach 
history,  geography,  grammar,  even  arithmetic  ?  ' 

1  Is  Monsieur  certain  that  I  am  myself  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  these  studies  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know ;  you  ought  to  be  at  your  age.' 

'  But  I  never  was  at  school,  Monsieur — 

'  Indeed  !  What  then  were  your  friends — what  was  your 
aunt  about?  She  is  very  much  to  blame.' 

'  No,  Monsieur,  no — my  aunt  is  good — she  is  not  to 
blame — she  does  what  she  can ;  she  lodges  and  nourishes 
me '  (I  report  Mdlle.  Henri's  phrases  literally,  and  it  was 
thus  she  translated  from  the  French).  '  She  is  not  rich  ;  she 
has  only  an  annuity  of  twelve  hundred  francs,  and  it  would 
be  impossible  for  her  to  send  me  to  school.' 

1  Rather,'  thought  I  to  myself  on  hearing  this,  but  I 
continued,  in  the  dogmatical  tone  I  had  adopted :-— '  It  is 
sad,  however,  that  you  should  be  brought  up  in  ignorance  of 
the  most  ordinary  branches  of  education  ;  had  you  known 
something  of  history  and  grammar  you  might,  by  degrees, 
have  relinquished  your  lace-mending  drudgery,  and  risen  in 
the  world.' 

'  It  is  what  I  mean  to  do.' 

'How?  By  a  knowledge  of  English  alone?  That  will 
not  suffice ;  no  respectable  family  will  receive  a  governess 
whose  whole  stock  of  knowledge  consists  in  a  familiarity 
with  one  foreign  language.' 


THE  PROFESSOR  145 

'  Monsieur,  I  know  other  things.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  you  can  work  with  Berlin  wools,  and  embroider 
handkerchiefs  and  collars — that  will  do  little  for  you.' 

Mdlle.  Henri's  lips  were  unclosed  to  answer,  but  she 
checked  herself,  as  thinking  the  discussion  had  been  suffi- 
ciently pursued,  and  remained  silent. 

'  Speak,'  I  continued,  impatiently ;  '  I  never  like  the 
appearance  of  acquiescence  when  the  reality  is  not  there  ;  and 
you  had  a  contradiction  at  your  tongue's  end.' 

'  Monsieur,  I  have  had  many  lessons  both  in  grammar, 
history,  geography,  and  arithmetic.  I  have  gone  through  a 
course  of  each  study.' 

1  Bravo !  but  how  did  you  manage  it,  since  your  aunt 
could  not  afford  to  send  you  to  school  ? ' 

1  By  lace-mending ;  by  the  thing  Monsieur  despises  so 
much.' 

'  Truly !  And  now,  Mademoiselle,  it  will  be  a  good 
exercise  for  you  to  explain  to  me  in  English  how  such  a 
result  was  produced  by  such  means.' 

'  Monsieur,  I  begged  my  aunt  to  have  me  taught  lace- 
mending  soon  after  we  came  to  Brussels,  because  I  knew  it 
was  a  metier,  a  trade  which  was  easily  learnt,  and  by  which 
I  could  earn  some  money  very  soon.  I  learnt  it  in  a  few 
days,  and  I  quickly  got  work,  for  all  the  Brussels  ladies  have 
old  lace — very  precious — which  must  be  mended  all  the 
times  it  is  washed.  I  earned  money  a  little,  and  this  money 
I  gave  for  lessons  in  the  studies  I  have  mentioned ;  some  of 
it  I  spent  in  buying  books,  English  books  especially ;  soon  I 
shall  try  to  find  a  place  of  governess,  or  school-teacher, 
when  I  can  write  and  speak  English  well ;  but  it  will  be 
difficult,  because  those  who  know  I  have  been  a  lace-mender 
will  despise  me,  as  the  pupils  here  despise  me.  Pourtant 
j'ai  mon  projet,'  she  added  in  a  lower  tone. 

'  What  is  it  ?  ' 

'  I  will  go  and  live  in  England ;  I  will  teach  French 
there.' 

The   words    were   pronounced   emphatically.     She   said 


146  THE   PROFESSOR 

'  England '  as  you  might  suppose  an  Israelite  of  Moses'  days 
would  have  said  Canaan. 

'  Have  you  a  wish  to  see  England  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  and  an  intention.' 

And  here  a  voice,  the  voice  of  the  directress,  interposed  : — 

'  Mademoiselle  Henri,  je  crois  qu'il  va  pleuvoir ;  vous 
feriez  bien,  ma  bonne  amie,  de  retourner  chez  vous  tout  de 
suite.' 

In  silence,  without  a  word  of  thanks  for  this  officious 
warning,  Mdlle.  Henri  collected  her  books ;  she  moved  to 
me  respectfully,  endeavoured  to  move  to  her  superior,  though 
the  endeavour  was  almost  a  failure,  for  her  head  seemed  as 
if  it  would  not  bend,  and  thus  departed. 

Where  there  is  one  grain  of  perseverance  or  wilfulness 
in  the  composition,  trifling  obstacles  are  ever  known  rather 
to  stimulate  than  discourage.  Mdlle.  Reuter  might  as  well 
have  spared  herself  the  trouble  of  giving  that  intimation 
about  the  weather  (by-the-by  her  prediction  was  falsified  by 
the  event — it  did  not  rain  that  evening).  At  the  close  of  the 
next  lesson  I  was  again  at  Mdlle.  Henri's  desk.  Thus  did 
I  accost  her : — '  What  is  your  idea  of  England,  Mademoiselle  ? 
Why  do  you  wish  to  go  there  ? ' 

Accustomed  by  this  time  to  the  calculated  abruptness  of 
my  manner,  it  no  longer  discomposed  or  surprised  her,  and 
she  answered  with  only  so  much  of  hesitation  as  was 
rendered  inevitable  by  the  difficulty  she  experienced  in 
improvising  the  translation  of  her  thoughts  from  French  to 
English— 

'  England  is  something  unique,  as  I  have  heard  and  read  ; 
my  idea  of  it  is  vague,  and  I  want  to  go  there  to  render  my 
idea  clear,  definite.' 

'  Hum !  How  much  of  England  do  you  suppose  you 
could  see  if  you  went  there  in  the  capacity  of  a  teacher?  A 
strange  notion  you  must  have  of  getting  a  clear  and  definite 
idea  of  a  country !  All  you  could  see  of  Great  Britain  would 
be  the  interior  of  a  school,  or  at  most  of  one  or  two  private 
dwellings.' 


THE   PEOFESSOR  147 

'  It  would  be  an  English  school ;  they  would  be  English 
dwellings.' 

'  Indisputably ;  but  what  then  ?  What  would  be  the 
value  of  observations  made  on  a  scale  so  narrow  ? ' 

'  Monsieur,  might  not  one  learn  something  by  analogy  ? 
An — 6chantillon — a — a  sample  often  serves  to  give  an  idea 
of  the  whole ;  besides,  nairow  and  wide  are  words  comparative, 
are  they  not  ?  All  my  life  would  perhaps  seem  narrow  in 
your  eyes — all  the  life  of  a — that  little  animal  subterranean 
— une  taupe — comment  dit-on  ? ' 

'  Mole.' 

'  Yes — a  mole,  which  lives  underground,  would  seem 
narrow  even  to  me.' 

'  Well,  Mademoiselle — what  then  ?    Proceed.' 

'  Mais,  Monsieur,  vous  me  comprenez.' 

'  Not  in  the  least ;  have  the  goodness  to  explain.' 

'  Why,  Monsieur,  it  is  just  so.  In  Switzerland  I  have 
done  but  little,  learnt  but  little,  and  seen  but  little ;  my  life 
there  was  in  a  circle ;  I  walked  the  same  round  every  day ; 
I  could  not  get  out  of  it ;  had  I  rested — remained  there  even 
till  my  death,  I  should  never  have  enlarged  it,  because  I  am 
poor  and  not  skilful,  I  have  not  great  acquirements ;  when 
I  was  quite  tired  of  this  round,  I  begged  my  aunt  to  go  to 
Brussels  ;  my  existence  is  no  larger  here,  because  I  am  no 
richer  or  higher ;  I  walk  in  as  narrow  a  limit,  but  the  scene 
is  changed  ;  it  would  change  again  if  I  went  to  England.  I 
knew  something  of  the  bourgeois  of  Geneva,  now  I  know 
something  of  the  bourgeois  of  Brussels  ;  if  I  went  to  London, 
I  should  know  something  of  the  bourgeois  of  London.  Can 
you  make  any  sense  out  of  what  I  say,  Monsieur,  or  is  it  all 
obscure  ? ' 

'  I  see,  I  see — now  let  us  advert  to  another  subject ;  you 
propose  to  devote  your  life  to  teaching,  and  you  are  a  most 
unsuccessful  teacher ;  you  cannot  keep  your  pupils  in  order. 

A  flush  of  painful  confusion  was  the  result  of  this  harsh 
remark  ;  she  bent  her  head  to  the  desk,  but  soon  raising  it 
replied — '  Monsieur,  I  am  not  a  skilful  teacher,  it  is  true, 


148  THE   PEOFESSOR 

hut  practice  improves  ;  besides,  I  work  under  difficulties ; 
here  I  only  teach  sewing,  I  can  show  no  power  in  sewing, 
no  superiority — it  is  a  subordinate  art ;  then  I  have  no 
associates  in  this  house,  I  aui  isolated ;  I  am  too  a  heretic, 
which  deprives  me  of  influence.' 

1  And  in  England  you  would  be  a  foreigner ;  that  too 
would  deprive  you  of  influence,  and  would  effectually 
separate  you  from  all  round  you  ;  in  England  you  would 
have  as  few  connections,  as  little  importance  as  you  have 
here.' 

'  But  I  should  be  learning  something ;  for  the  rest,  there 
are  probably  difficulties  for  such  as  I  everywhere,  and  if  I 
must  contend,  and  perhaps  be  conquered,  I  would  rather 
submit  to  English  pride  than  to  Flemish  coarseness  ;  besides, 
Monsieur ' 

She  stopped — not  evidently  from  any  difficulty  in  finding 
words  to  express  herself,  but  because  discretion  seemed  to  say, 
'  You  have  said  enough.' 

1  Finish  your  phrase,'  I  urged. 

'Besides,  Monsieur,  I  long  to  live  once  more  among 
Protestants  ;  they  are  more  honest  than  Catholics  ;  a  Romish 
school  is  a  building  with  porous  walls,  a  hollow  floor,  a  false 
ceiling  ;  every  room  in  this  house,  Monsieui-,  has  eye-holes 
and  ear-holes,  and  what  the  house  is,  the  inhabitants  are, 
very  treacherous ;  they  all  think  it  lawful  to  tell  lies ; 
they  all  call  it  politeness  to  profess  friendship  where  they 
feel  hatred.' 

1  All  ? '  said  I ;  '  you  mean  the  pupils — the  mere  children 
— inexperienced,  giddy  things,  who  have  not  learnt  to  distin- 
guish the  difference  between  right  and  wrong  ?  ' 

'  On  the  contrary,  Monsieur — the  children  are  the  most 
sincere  ;  they  have  not  yet  had  time  to  become  accomplished 
in  duplicity ;  they  will  tell  lies,  but  they  do  it  inartificially, 
and  you  know  they  are  lying ;  but  the  grown-up  people 
are  very  false ;  they  deceive  strangers,  they  deceive  each 
other ' 

A  servant  here  entered. 


THE   PEOFESSOE  149 

'  Millie.  Henri — Mdlle.  Eeuter  vous  prie  de  vouloir  bien 
conduire  la  petite  de  Dorlodot  chez  elle :  elle  vous  attend 
dans  le  cabinet  de  Eosalie  la  portiere — c'est  que  sa  bonne 
n'est  pas  venue  la  chercher — voyez-vous  ? ' 

'  Eh  bien  !  est-ce  que  je  suis  sa  bonne — moi  ?  '  demanded 
Mdlle.  Henri ;  then  smiling,  with  that  same  bitter,  derisive 
smile  I  had  seen  on  her  lips  once  before,  she  hastily  rose  and 
made  her  exit. 


CHAPTEE  XVIII 

THE  young  Anglo-Swiss  evidently  derived  both  pleasure 
and  profit  from  the  study  of  her  mother-tongue.  In  teaching 
her  I  did  not,  of  course,  confine  myself  to  the  ordinary  school 
routine  ;  I  made  instruction  in  English  a  channel  for  instruc- 
tion in  literatui'e.  I  prescribed  to  her  a  course  of  reading  ; 
she  had  a  little  selection  of  English  classics,  a  few  of  which 
had  been  left  her  by  her  mother,  and  the  others  she  had 
purchased  with  her  own  penny-fee.  I  lent  her  some  more 
modern  works ;  all  these  she  read  with  avidity,  giving  me, 
in  writing,  a  clear  summary  of  each  work  when  she  had 
perused  it.  Composition,  too,  she  delighted  in.  Such 
occupation  seemed  the  very  breath  of  her  nostrils,  and  soon 
her  improved  productions  wrung  from  me  the  avowal  that 
those  qualities  in  her  I  had  termed  taste  and  fancy  ought 
rather  to  have  been  denominated  judgment  and  imagination. 
When  I  intimated  so  much,  which  I  did  as  usual  in  dry  and 
stinted  phrase,  I  looked  for  the  radiant  and  exulting  smile 
my  one  word  of  eulogy  had  elicited  before  ;  but  Frances 
coloured.  If  she  did  smile,  it  was  very  softly  and  shyly ; 
and  instead  of  looking  up  to  me  with  a  conquering  glance, 
her  eyes  rested  on  my  hand,  which,  stretched  over  her 
shoulder,  was  writing  some  directions  with  a  pencil  on  the 
margin  of  her  book. 

'  Well,  are  you  pleased  that  I  am  satisfied  with  your 
progress  ? '  I  asked. 

'  Yes,'  said  she  slowly,  gently,  the  blush  that  had  half 
subsided  returning. 


THE   PEOFESSOR  151 

'But  I  do  not  say  enough,  I  suppose?'  I  continued. 
'  My  praises  are  too  cool  ? ' 

She  made  no  answer,  and,  I  thought,  looked  a  little  sad. 
I  divined  her  thoughts,  and  should  much  have  liked  to  have 
i  esponded  to  them,  had  it  been  expedient  so  to  do.  She  was 
not  now  very  ambitious  of  my  admiration — not  eagerly 
desirous  of  dazzling  me  ;  a  little  affection — ever  so  little — 
pleased  her  better  than  all  the  panegyrics  in  the  world. 
Feeling  this,  I  stood  a  good  while  behind  her,  writing  on  the 
margin  of  her  book.  I  could  hardly  quit  my  station  or 
relinquish  my  occupation  ;  something  retained  me  bending 
there,  my  head  very  near  hers,  and  my  hand  near  hers  too ; 
but  the  margin  of  a  copy-book  is  not  an  illimitable  space — 
so,  doubtless,  the  directress  thought ;  and  she  took  occasion 
to  walk  past  in  order  to  ascertain  by  what  art  I  prolonged  so 
disproportionately  the  period  necessary  for  filling  it.  I  was 
obliged  to  go.  Distasteful  effort — to  leave  what  we  most 
prefer  ! 

Frances  did  not  become  pale  or  feeble  in  consequence  of 
her  sedentary  employment ;  perhaps  the  stimulus  it  communi- 
cated to  her  mind  counterbalanced  the  inaction  it  imposed 
on  her  body.  She  changed,  indeed,  changed  obviously  and 
rapidly  ;  but  it  was  for  the  better.  When  I  first  saw  her, 
her  countenance  was  sunless,  her  complexion  colourless ; 
she  looked  like  one  who  had  no  source  of  enjoyment,  no 
store  of  bliss  anywhere  in  the  world ;  now  the  cloud  had 
passed  from  her  mien,  leaving  space  for  the  dawn  of  hope 
and  interest,  and  those  feelings  rose  like  a  clear  morning, 
animating  what  had  been  depressed,  tinting  what  had  been 
pale.  Her  eyes,  whose  colour  I  had  not  at  first  known,  so 
dim  were  they  with  repressed  tears,  so  shadowed  with  cease- 
less dejection,  now,  lit  by  a  ray  of  the  sunshine  that  cheered 
her  heart,  revealed  irids  of  bright  hazel — irids  large  and  full, 
screened  with  long  lashes ;  and  pupils  instinct  with  fire. 
That  look  of  wan  emaciation  which  anxiety  or  low  spirits 
often  communicates  to  a  thoughtful,  thin  face,  rather  long 
than  round,  having  vanished  from  hers,  a  clearness  of  skin 


152  THE  PROFESSOR 

almost  bloom,  and  a  plumpness  almost  embonpoint,  softened 
the  decided  lines  of  her  features.  Her  figure  shared  in  this 
beneficial  change ;  it  became  rounder,  and  as  the  harmony  of 
her  form  was  complete  and  her  stature  of  the  graceful  middle 
height,  one  did  not  regret  (or  at  least  I  did  not  regret)  the 
absence  of  confirmed  fulness,  in  contours,  still  slight,  though 
compact,  elegant,  flexible — the  exquisite  turning  of  waist, 
wrist,  hand,  foot,  and  ankle  satisfied  completely  my  notions 
of  symmetry,  and  allowed  a  lightness  and  freedom  of  move- 
ment which  corresponded  with  my  ideas  of  grace. 

Thus  improved,  thus  wakened  to  life,  Mdlle.  Henri  began 
to  take  a  new  footing  in  the  school ;  her  mental  power, 
manifested  gradually  but  steadily,  ere  long  extorted 
recognition  even  from  the  envious  ;  and  when  the  young  and 
healthy  saw  that  she  could  smile  brightly,  converse  gaily, 
move  with  vivacity  and  alertness,  they  acknowledged  in  her 
a  sisterhood  of  youth  and  health,  and  tolerated  her  as  of  their 
kind  accordingly. 

To  speak  truth,  I  watched  this  change  much  as  a  gardener 
watches  the  growth  of  a  precious  plant,  and  I  contributed  to 
it  too,  even  as  the  said  gardener  contributes  to  the  develop- 
ment of  his  favourite.  To  me  it  was  not  difficult  to  discover 
how  I  could  best  foster  my  pupil,  cherish  her  starved  feelings, 
and  induce  the  outward  manifestation  of  that  inward  vigour 
which  sunless  drought  and  blighting  blast  had  hitherto 
forbidden  to  expand.  Constancy  of  attention — a  kindness  as 
mute  as  watchful,  always  standing  by  her,  cloaked  in  the 
rough  garb  of  austei'ity,  and  making  its  real  nature  known 
only  by  a  rare  glance  of  interest,  or  a  cordial  and  gentle  word  ; 
real  respect  masked  with  seeming  imperiousness,  directing, 
urging  her  actions,  yet  helping  her  too,  and  that  with  devoted 
care  :  these  were  the  means  I  used,  for  these  means  best 
suited  Frances'  feelings,  as  susceptible  as  deep  vibrating — her 
nature  at  once  proud  and  shy. 

The  benefits  of  my  system  became  apparent  also  in  her 
altered  demeanour  as  a  teacher  ;  she  now  took  her  place 
amongst  her  pupils  with  an  air  of  spirit  and  firmness  which 


THE  P&OFESSOft  153 

assured  them  at  once  that  she  meant  to  be  obeyed — and 
obeyed  she  was.  They  felt  they  had  lost  their  power  over 
her.  If  any  girl  had  rebelled,  she  would  no  longer  have 
taken  her  rebellion  to  heart ;  she  possessed  a  source  of  com- 
fort they  could  not  drain,  a  pillar  of  support  they  could 
not  overthrow  :  formerly,  when  insulted,  she  wept ;  now,  she 
smiled. 

The  public  reading  of  one  of  her  devoirs  achieved  the 
revelation  of  her  talents  to  all  and  sundry ;  I  remember  the 
subject — it  was  an  emigrant's  letter  to  his  friends  at  home. 
It  opened  with  simplicity  ;  some  natural  and  graphic  touches 
disclosed  to  the  reader  the  scene  of  virgin  forest  and  great 
New- World  river — barren  of  sail  and  flag — amidst  which  the 
epistle  was  supposed  to  be  indited.  The  difficulties  and 
dangers  that  attend  a  settler's  life  were  hinted  at ;  and  in 
the  few  words  said  on  that  subject,  Mdlle.  Henri  failed  not 
to  render  audible  the  voice  of  resolve,  patience,  endeavour. 
The  disasters  which  had  driven  him  from  his  native  country 
were  alluded  to  ;  stainless  honour,  inflexible  independence, 
indestructible  self-respect  there  took  the  word.  Past  days 
were  spoken  of ;  the  grief  of  parting,  the  regrets  of  absence, 
were  touched  upon ;  feeling,  forcible  and  fine,  breathed 
eloquent  in  every  period.  At  the  close,  consolation  was 
suggested ;  religious  faith  became  there  the  speaker,  and  she 
spoke  well. 

The  devoir  was  powerfully  written,  in  language  at  once 
chaste  and  choice,  in  a  style  nerved  with  vigour  and  graced 
with  harmony. 

Mdlle.  Keuter  was  quite  sufficiently  acquainted  with 
English  to  understand  it  when  read  or  spoken  in  her 
presence,  though  she  could  neither  speak  nor  write  it  herself. 
During  the  perusal  of  this  devoir  she  sat  placidly  busy,  her 
eyes  and  fingers  occupied  with  the  formation  of  a  '  riviere,' 
or  open-work  hem  round  a  cambric  handkerchief ;  she  said 
nothing,  and  her  face  and  forehead,  clothed  with  a  mask  of 
purely  negative  expression,  were  as  blank  of  comment  as  her 
lips.  As  neither  surprise,  pleasure,  approbation,  nor  interest 


154  THE  PROFESSOR 

were  evinced  in  her  countenance,  so  no  more  were  disdain, 
envy,  annoyance,  weariness;  if  that  inscrutable  mien  said 
anything,  it  was  simply  this — 'The  matter  is  too  trite  to 
excite  an  emotion,  or  call  forth  an  opinion.' 

As  soon  as  I  had  done,  a  hum  rose  ;  several  of  the 
pupils,  pressing  round  Mdlle.  Henri,  began  to  beset  her  with 
compliments  ;  the  composed  voice  of  the  directress  was  now 
heard : — '  Young  ladies,  such  of  you  as  have  cloaks  and 
umbrellas  will  hasten  to  return  home  before  the  shower 
becomes  heavier '  (it  was  raining  a  little),  '  the  remainder 
will  wait  till  their  respective  servants  arrive  to  fetch  them.' 
And  the  school  dispersed,  for  it  was  four  o'clock. 

'  Monsieur,  a  word,'  said  Mdlle.  Reuter,  stepping  on  to 
the  estrade,  and  signifying,  by  a  movement  of  the  hand,  that 
she  wished  me  to  relinquish,  for  an  instant,  the  castor  I  had 
clutched. 

'  Mademoiselle,  I  am  at  your  service.' 

'  Monsieur,  it  is  of  course  an  excellent  plan  to  encourage 
effort  in  young  people  by  making  conspicuous  the  progress 
of  any  particularly  industrious  pupil ;  but  do  you  not  think 
that  in  the  present  instance,  Mdlle.  Henri  can  hardly  be 
considered  as  a  concurrent  with  the  other  pupils  ?  She  is 
older  than  most  of  them,  and  has  had  advantages  of  an  ex- 
clusive nature  for  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  English  ;  on  the 
other  hand,  her  sphere  of  life  is  somewhat  beneath  theirs  ; 
under  these  circumstances,  a  public  distinction,  conferred 
upon  Mdlle.  Henri,  may  be  the  means  of  suggesting  com- 
parisons, and  exciting  feelings  such  as  would  be  far  from 
advantageous  to  the  individual  forming  their  object.  The 
interest  I  take  in  Mdlle.  Henri's  real  welfare  makes  me 
desirous  of  screening  her  from  annoyances  of  this  sort ; 
besides,  Monsieur,  as  I  have  before  hinted  to  you,  the  senti- 
ment of  amour  propre  has  a  somewhat  marked  preponderance 
in  her  character ;  celebrity  has  a  tendency  to  foster  this 
sentiment,  and  in  her  it  should  be  rather  repressed— she 
rather  needs  keeping  down  than  bringing  forward ;  and 
then  I  think,  Monsieur— it  appears  to  me  that  ambition, 


THE  PEOFESSOR  155 

literary  ambition  especially,  is  not  a  feeling  to  be  cherished 
in  the  mind  of  a  woman  :  would  not  Mdlle.  Henri  be  much 
safer  and  happier  if  taught  to  believe  that  in  the  quiet 
discharge  of  social  duties  consists  her  real  vocation,  than  if 
stimulated  to  aspire  after  applause  and  publicity  ?  She  may 
never  marry ;  scanty  as  are  her  resources,  obscure  as  are  her 
connections,  uncertain  as  is  her  health  (for  I  think  her 
consumptive,  her  mother  died  of  that  complaint),  it  is 
more  than  probable  she  never  will :  I  do  not  see  how  she 
can  rise  to  a  position  whence  such  a  step  would  be  pos- 
sible ;  but  even  in  celibacy  it  would  be  better  for  her  to 
retain  the  character  and  habits  of  a  respectable  decorous 
female.' 

'  Indisputably,  Mademoiselle,'  was  my  answer.  '  Your 
opinion  admits  of  no  doubt ;  '  and  fearful  of  the  harangue 
being  renewed,  I  retreated  under  cover  of  that  cordial  sentence 
of  assent. 

At  the  date  of  a  fortnight  after  the  little  incident  noted 
above,  I  find  it  recorded  in  my  diary  that  a  hiatus  occurred 
in  Mdlle.  Henri's  usually  regular  attendance  in  class.  The 
first  day  or  two  I  wondered  at  her  absence,  but  did  not  like 
to  ask  an  explanation  of  it ;  I  thought  indeed  some  chance 
word  might  be  dropped  which  would  affoixl  me  the  informa- 
tion I  wished  to  obtain,  without  my  running  the  risk  of 
exciting  silly  smiles  and  gossiping  whispers  by  demanding  it. 
But  when  a  week  passed  and  the  seat  at  the  desk  near  the 
door  still  remained  vacant,  and  when  no  allusion  was  made 
to  the  circumstance  by  any  individual  of  the  class — when,  on 
the  contrary,  I  found  that  all  observed  a  marked  silence  on 
the  point — I  determined,  coute  que,  cofite,  to  break  the  ice  of 
this  silly  reserve.  I  selected  Sylvie  as  my  informant, 
because  from  her  I  knew  that  I  should  at  least  get  a  sensible 
answer,  unaccompanied  by  wriggle,  titter,  or  other  flourish  of 
folly. 

'  Oil  done  est  Mdlle.  Henri  ?  '  I  said  one  day  as  I  returned 
an  exercise-book  I  had  been  examining. 
'  Elle  est  parlie,  Monsieur.' 


156  THE  PEOFESSOR 

'  Partie  !  et  pour  combien  de  temps  ?    Quand  reviendra- 
t-elle  ? ' 

'  Kile  est  partie  pour  toujours,  Monsieur ;  elle  ne 
reviendra  plus.' 

4  Ah  ! '  was  my  involuntary  exclamation  ;  then  after  a 
pause  :  '  En  etes-vous  bien  sure,  Sylvie  ? ' 

'  Oui,  oui,  Monsieur,  Mademoiselle  la  directrice  nous  1'a 
dit  elle-meme  il  y  a  deux  ou  trois  jours.' 

And  I  could  pursue  my  inquiries  no  further  ;  time,  place, 
and  circumstances  forbade  my  adding  another  word.  I 
could  neither  comment  on  what  had  been  said,  nor  demand 
further  particulars.  A  question  as  to  the  reason  of  the 
teacher's  departure,  as  to  whether  it  had  been  voluntary  or 
otherwise,  was  indeed  on  my  lips,  but  I  suppressed  it — there 
were  listeners  all  round.  An  hour  after,  in  passing  Sylvie 
in  the  corridor  as  she  was  putting  on  her  bonnet,  I  stopped 
short  and  asked :  '  Sylvie,  do  you  know  Mdlle.  Henri's 
address?  I  have  some  books  of  hers,'  I  added  carelessly, 
'  and  I  should  wish  to  send  them  to  her.' 

'  No,  Monsieur,'  replied  Sylvie  ;  '  but  perhaps  Eosalie,  the 
portress,  will  be  able  to  give  it  to  you.' 

Rosalie's  cabinet  was  just  at  hand ;  I  stepped  in  and 
repeated  the  inquiry.  Rosalie — a  smart  French  grisette — 
looked  up  from  her  work  with  a  knowing  smile,  precisely  the 
sort  of  smile  I  had  been  so  desirous  to  avoid  exciting.  Her 
answer  was  prepai'ed  ;  she  knew  nothing  whatever  of  Mdlle. 
Henri's  address — had  never  known  it.  Turning  from  her 
with  impatience— for  I  believed  she  lied  and  was  hired  to  lie 
— I  almost  knocked  down  someone  who  had  been  standing  at 
my  back  ;  it  was  the  directress.  My  abrupt  movement  made 
her  recoil  two  or  three  steps.  I  was  obliged  to  apologise, 
which  I  did  more  concisely  than  politely.  No  man  likes  to 
be  dogged,  and  in  the  very  irritable  mood  in  which  I  then 
was  the  sight  of  Mdlle.  Reuter  thoroughly  incensed  me.  At 
the  moment  I  turned  her  countenance  looked  hard,  dark,  and 
inquisitive;  her  eyes  were  bent  upon  me  with  an  expression 
of  almost  hungry  curiosity.  I  had  scarcely  caught  this 


THE   PKOFESSOR  157 

phase  of  physiognomy  ere  it  had  vanished ;  a  bland  smile 
played  on  her  features  ;  my  harsh  apology  was  received  with 
good-humoured  facility. 

1  Oh,  don't  mention  it,  Monsieur ;  you  only  touched  my 
hair  with  your  elbow  ;  it  is  no  worse,  only  a  little  dishevelled.' 
She  shook  it  back,  and  passing  her  fingers  through  her 
curls,  loosened  them  into  more  numerous  and  flowing 
ringlets.  Then  she  went  on  with  vivacity :  '  Rosalie,  I  was 
coming  to  tell  you  to  go  instantly  and  close  the  windows  of 
the  salon ;  the  wind  is  rising,  and  the  muslin  curtains  will 
be  covered  with  dust.' 

Rosalie  departed.  '  Now,'  thought  I,  '  this  will  not  do  ; 
Mdlle.  Reuter  thinks  her  meanness  in  eavesdropping  is 
screened  by  her  art  in  devising  a  pretext,  whereas  the  muslin 
curtains  she  speaks  of  are  not  more  transparent  than  this 
same  pretext.'  An  impulse  came  over  me  to  thrust  the 
flimsy  screen  aside,  and  confront  her  craft  boldly  with  a 
word  or  two  of  plain  truth.  '  The  rough-shod  foot  treads 
most  firmly  on  slippery  ground,'  thought  I ;  so  I  began : 
'  Mdlle.  Henri  has  left  your  establishment — been  dismissed, 
I  presume  ? ' 

'Ah,  I  wished  to  have  a  little  conversation  with  you, 
Monsieur,'  replied  the  directress  with  the  most  natural  and 
affable  air  in  the  world  ;  '  but  we  cannot  talk  quietly  here  ; 
will  Monsieur  step  into  the  garden  a  minute  ?  '  And  she  pre- 
ceded me,  stepping  out  through  the  glass  door  I  have  before 
mentioned. 

'  There,'  said  she,  when  we  had  reached  the  centre  of  the 
middle  alley,  and  when  the  foliage  of  shrubs  and  trees,  now 
in  their  summer  pride,  closing  behind  and  around  us,  shut 
out  the  view  of  the  house,  and  thus  imparted  a  sense  of 
seclusion  even  to  this  little  plot  of  ground  in  the  very  core  of 
a  capital. 

'  There,  one  feels  quiet  and  free  when  there  are  only 
pear-trees  and  rose-bushes  about  one  ;  I  daresay  you,  like 
me,  Monsieur,  are  sometimes  tired  of  being  eternally  in  the 
inidst  of  life  ;  of  having  human  faces  always  round  you, 


158  THE  PROFESSOR 

human  eyes  always  upon  you,  human  voices  always  in  your 
ear.  I  am  sure  I  often  wish  intensely  for  liberty  to  spend  a 
whole  month  in  the  country  at  some  little  farmhouse,  hien 
gentille,  bien  propre,  tout  entoure"e  de  champs  et  de  bois ; 
quelle  vie  charmante  que  la  vie  champ^tre !  N'est-ce  pas, 
Monsieur  ? ' 

'  Cela  depend,  Mademoiselle.' 

'  Que  le  vent  est  bon  et  frais !  '  continued  the  directress  ; 
and  she  was  right  there,  for  it  was  a  south  wind,  soft  and 
sweet.  I  carried  my  hat  in  my  hand,  and  this  gentle  breeze, 
passing  through  my  hair,  soothed  my  temples  like  balm. 
Its  refreshing  effect,  however,  penetrated  no  deeper  than  the 
mere  surface  of  the  frame  ;  for  as  I  walked  by  the  side  of 
Mdlle.  Eeuter,  my  heart  was  still  hot  within  me,  and  while 
I  was  musing  the  fire  burned  ;  then  spake  I  with  my  tongue  : 
'  I  understand  Mdlle.  Henri  is  gone  from  hence,  and  will  not 
return  ? ' 

'  Ah,  true  !  I  meant  to  have  named  the  subject  to  you 
some  days  ago,  but  my  time  is  so  completely  taken  up,  I 
cannot  do  half  the  things  I  wish  :  have  you  never  experienced 
what  it  is,  Monsieur,  to  find  the  day  too  short  by  twelve 
hours  for  your  numerous  duties  ? ' 

1  Not  often.  Mdlle.  Henri's  departure  was  not  voluntary, 
I  presume  ?  If  it  had  been,  she  would  certainly  have  given 
me  some  intimation  of  it,  being  my  pupil.' 

1  Oh,  did  she  not  tell  you  ?  That  was  strange  ;  for  my 
part,  I  never  thought  of  adverting  to  the  subject ;  when  one 
has  so  many  things  to  attend  to,  one  is  apt  to  forget  little 
incidents  that  are  not  of  primary  importance.' 

'  You  consider  Mdlle.  Henri's  dismission,  then,  as  a  very 
insignificant  event  ? ' 

'  Dismission  ?  Ah  !  she  was  not  dismissed  ;  I  can  say 
with  truth,  Monsieur,  that  since  I  became  the  head  of  this 
establishment  no  master  or  teacher  has  ever  been  dismissed 
from  it.' 

'  Yet  some  have  left  it,  Mademoiselle  ?  ' 

'  Many  ;  I  have  found  it  necessary  to  change  frequently 


THE  PEOFESSOR  159 

— a  change  of  instructors  is  often  beneficial  to  the  interests 
of  a  school ;  it  gives  life  and  variety  to  the  proceedings ;  it 
amuses  the  pupils,  and  suggests  to  the  parents  the  idea  of 
exertion  and  progress.' 

1  Yet  when  you  are  tired  of  a  professor  or  maltresse,  you 
scruple  to  dismiss  them  ?  ' 

1  No  need  to  have  recourse  to  such  extreme  measures,  I 
assure  you.  Allons,  Monsieur  le  professeur — asseyons-nous  ; 
je  vais  vous  donner  une  petite  lecon  dans  votre  etat 
d'instituteur.'  (I  wish  I  might  write  all  she  said  to  me  in 
French — it  loses  sadly  by  being  translated  into  English.) 
We  had  now  reached  the  garden-chair;  the  directress  sat 
down,  and  signed  to  me  to  sit  by  her,  but  I  only  rested  my 
knee  on  the  seat,  and  stood  leaning  my  head  and  arm  against 
the  embowering  branch  of  a  huge  laburnum,  whose  golden 
flowers,  blent  with  the  dusky  green  leaves  of  a  lilac-bush, 
formed  a  mixed  arch  of  shade  and  sunshine  over  the  retreat. 
Mdlle.  Reuter  sat  silent  a  moment ;  some  novel  movements 
were  evidently  working  in  her  mind,  and  they  showed  their 
nature  on  her  astute  brow ;  she  was  meditating  some 
chef-d'oeuvre  of  policy.  Convinced  by  several  months' 
experience  that  the  affectation  of  virtues  she  did  not  possess 
was  unavailing  to  ensnare  me — aware  that  I  had  read  her 
real  nature,  and  would  believe  nothing  of  the  character  she 
gave  out  as  being  hers — she  had  determined,  at  last,  to  try  a 
new  key,  and  see  if  the  lock  of  my  heart  would  yield  to  that ; 
a  little  audacity,  a  word  of  truth,  a  glimpse  of  the  real. 
'  Yes,  I  will  try,'  was  her  inward  resolve ;  and  then  her  blue 
eye  glittered  upon  me — it  did  not  flash — nothing  of  flame 
ever  kindled  in  its  temperate  gleam. 

'  Monsieur  fears  to  sit  by  me  ? '  she  inquired  playfully. 

'  I  have  no  wish  to  usurp  Pelet's  place/  I  answered,  for  I 
had  got  the  habit  of  speaking  to  her  bluntly — a  habit  begun 
in  anger,  but  continued  because  I  saw  that,  instead  of 
offending,  it  fascinated  her.  She  cast  down  her  eyes,  and 
drooped  her  eyelids ;  she  sighed  uneasily  ;  she  turned  with 
an  anxious  gesture,  as  if  she  would  give  me  the  idea  of  a 


160  THE  PKOFESSOE 

bird  that  flutters  in  its  cage,  and  would  fain  fly  from  its  jail 
and  jailer,  and  seek  its  natural  mate  and  pleasant  nest. 

'  Well — and  your  lesson  ? '  I  demanded  briefly. 

'  Ah  ! '  she  exclaimed,  recovering  herself,  '  you  are  so 
young,  so  frank  and  fearless,  so  talented,  so  impatient  of 
imbecility,  so  disdainful  of  vulgarity,  you  need  a  lesson ; 
here  it  is  then :  far  more  is  to  be  done  in  this  world  by 
dexterity  than  by  strength ;  but,  perhaps,  you  knew  that 
before,  for  there  is  delicacy  as  well  as  power  in  your 
character — policy,  as  well  as  pride  ? ' 

'  Go  on,'  said  I ;  and  I  could  hardly  help  smiling,  the 
flattery  was  so  piquant,  so  finely  seasoned.  She  caught  the 
prohibited  smile,  though  I  passed  my  hand  over  my  mouth 
to  conceal  it ;  and  again  she  made  room  for  me  to  sit  beside 
her.  I  shook  my  head,  though  temptation  penetrated  to  my 
senses  at  the  moment,  and  once  more  I  told  her  to  go  on. 

1  Well,  then,  if  ever  you  are  at  the  head  of  a  large 
establishment,  dismiss  nobody.  To  speak  truth,  Monsieur 
(and  to  you  I  will  speak  truth),  I  despise  people  who  are 
always  making  rows,  blustering,  sending  off  one  to  the  right, 
and  another  to  the  left,  urging  and  hurrying  circumstances. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  like  best  to  do,  Monsieur,  shall  I  ?  '  She 
looked  up  again ;  she  had  compounded  her  glance  well  this 
time — much  archness,  more  deference,  a  spicy  dash  of 
coquetry,  an  unveiled  consciousness  of  capacity.  I  nodded ; 
she  treated  me  like  the  great  Mogul ;  so  I  became  the  great 
Mogul  as  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

'I  like,  Monsieur,  to  take  my  knitting  in  my  hands,  and 
to  sit  quietly  down  in  my  chair ;  circumstances  defile  past 
me ;  I  watch  their  march  ;  so  long  as  they  follow  the  course 
I  wish,  I  say  nothing,  and  do  nothing  ;  I  don't  clap  my  hands, 
and  cry  out  "  Bravo !  How  lucky  I  am  !  "  to  attract  the 
attention  and  envy  of  my  neighbours— I  am  merely  passive ; 
but  when  events  fall  out  ill — when  circumstances  become 
adverse — I  watch  very  vigilantly  ;  I  knit  on  still,  and  still  I 
hold  my  tongue  ;  but  every  now  and  then,  Monsieur,  I  just  put 
my  toe  out — so — and  give  the  rebellious  circumstance  a  little 


THE  PKOFESSOR  161 

secret  push,  without  noise,  which  sends  it  the  way  I  wish, 
and  I  am  successful  after  all,  and  nobody  has  seen  my  ex- 
pedient. So,  when  teachers  or  masters  become  troublesome 
and  inefficient — when,  in  short,  the  interests  of  the  school 
would  suffer  from  their  retaining  their  places — I  mind  my 
knitting,  events  progress,  circumstances  glide  past ;  I  see 
one  which,  if  pushed  ever  so  little  awry,  will  render  unten- 
able the  post  I  wish  to  have  vacated — the  deed  is  done — the 
stumbling-block  removed — and  no  one  saw  me :  I  have  not 
made  an  enemy,  I  am  rid  of  an  encumbrance.' 

A  moment  since,  and  I  thought  her  alluring;  this 
speech  concluded,  I  looked  on  her  with  distaste. 

'  Just  like  you,'  was  my  cold  answer.  '  And  in  this  way 
you  have  ousted  Mdlle.  Henri  ?  You  wanted  her  office, 
therefore  you  rendered  it  intolerable  to  her  ?  ' 

'  Not  at  all,  Monsieur,  I  was  merely  anxious  about 
Mdlle.  Henri's  health ;  no,  your  moral  sight  is  clear  and 
piercing,  but  there  you  have  failed  to  discover  the  truth.  I 
took — I  have  always  taken  a  real  interest  in  Mdlle.  Henri's 
welfare  ;  I  did  not  like  her  going  out  in  all  weathers ;  I 
thought  it  would  be  more  advantageous  for  her  to  obtain  a 
permanent  situation ;  besides,  I  considered  her  now  qualified 
to  do  something  more  than  teach  sewing.  I  reasoned  with 
her ;  left  the  decision  to  herself ;  she  saw  the  correctness  of 
my  views,  and  adopted  them.' 

'Excellent!  and  now,  Mademoiselle,  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  give  me  her  address.' 

'  Her  address ! '  and  a  sombre  and  stony  change  came 
over  the  mien  of  the  directress.  '  Her  address?  Ah  ! — well 
—I  wish  I  could  oblige  you,  Monsieur,  but  I  cannot,  and  I 
will  tell  you  why  ;  whenever  I  myself  asked  her  for  her 
address,  she  always  evaded  the  inquiry.  I  thought — I  may 
be  wrong — but  I  tlwught  her  motive  for  doing  so  was  a 
natural,  though  mistaken  reluctance  to  introduce  me  to 
some,  probably,  very  poor  abode ;  her  means  were  narrow, 
her  origin  obscure  ;  she  lives  somewhere,  doubtless,  in  the 
"  Basse  Ville." ' 


162  THE  PROFESSOK 

'  I'll  not  lose  sight  of  my  best  pupil  yet,'  said  I,  '  though 
she  were  horn  of  beggars  and  lodged  in  a  cellar ;  for  the 
rest,  it  is  absurd  to  make  a  bugbear  of  her  origin  to  me — I 
happen  to  know  that  she  was  a  Swiss  pastor's  daughter, 
neither  more  nor  less ;  and,  as  to  her  narrow  means,  I  care 
nothing  for  the  poverty  of  her  purse  so  long  as  her  heart 
overflows  with  affluence.' 

'  Your  sentiments  are  perfectly  noble,  Monsieur,'  said  the 
directress,  affecting  to  suppress  a  yawn ;  her  sprightliness 
was  now  extinct,  her  temporary  candour  shut  up  ;  the  little, 
red -coloured,  piratical-looking  pennon  of  audacity  she  had 
allowed  to  float  a  minute  in  the  air,  was  furled,  and  the 
broad,  sober-hued  flag  of  dissimulation  again  hung  low  over 
the  citadel.  I  did  not  like  her  thus,  so  I  cut  short  the  tete- 
d-tete  and  departed. 


CHAPTEB  XIX 

NOVELISTS  should  never  allow  themselves  to  weary  of  the 
study  of  real  life.  If  they  observed  this  duty  conscientiously, 
they  would  give  us  fewer  pictures  chequered  with  vivid 
contrasts  of  light  and  shade ;  they  would  seldom  elevate 
their  heroes  and  heroines  to  the  heights  of  rapture— still 
seldomer  sink  them  to  the  depths  of  despair ;  for  if  we 
rarely  taste  the  fulness  of  joy  in  this  life,  we  yet  more  rarely 
savour  the  acrid  bitterness  of  hopeless  anguish ;  unless, 
indeed,  we  have  plunged  like  beasts  into  sensual  in- 
dulgence, abused,  strained,  stimulated,  again  overstrainedi 
and,  at  last,  destroyed  our  faculties  for  enjoyment ;  then, 
truly,  we  may  find  ourselves  without  support,  robbed  of 
hope.  Our  agony  is  great,  and  how  can  it  end  ?  We  have 
broken  the  spring  of  our  powers  ;  life  must  be  all  suffering 
— too  feeble  to  conceive  faith — death  must  be  darkness — God, 
spirits,  religion  can  have  no  place  in  our  collapsed  minds, 
where  linger  only  hideous  and  polluting  recollections  of  vice  ; 
and  time  brings  us  on  to  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  dissolu- 
tion flings  us  in — a  rag  eaten  through  and  through  with 
disease,  wrung  together  with  pain,  stamped  into  the  church- 
yard sod  by  the  inexorable  heel  of  despair. 

But  the  man  of  regular  life  and  rational  mind  never 
despairs.  He  loses  his  property — it  is  a  blow — he  staggers 
a  moment ;  then,  his  energies,  roused  by  the  smart,  are  at  work 
to  seek  a  remedy  ;  activity  soon  mitigates  regret.  Sickness 
affects  him  ;  he  takes  patience — endures  what  he  cannot 
cure.  Acute  pain  racks  him  ;  his  writhing  limbs  know  not 
where  to  find  rest ;  he  leans  on  Hope's  anchors.  Death 


164  THE  PKOFESSOK 

takes  from  him  what  he  loves  ;  roots  up,  and  tears  violently 
away  the  stem  round  which  his  affections  were  twined — a 
dark,  dismal  time,  a  frightful  wrench — but  some  morning 
Religion  looks  into  his  desolate  house  with  sunrise,  and 
says,  that  in  another  world,  another  life,  he  shall  meet  his 
kindred  again.  She  speaks  of  that  world  as  a  place  un- 
sullied by  sin — of  that  life,  as  an  era  unembittered  by 
suffering;  she  mightily  strengthens  her  consolation  by  con- 
necting with  it  two  ideas — which  mortals  cannot  compre- 
hend, but  on  which  they  love  to  repose — Eternity,  Immor- 
tality ;  and  the  mind  of  the  mourner,  being  filled  with  an 
image,  faint  yet  glorious,  of  heavenly  hills  all  light  and 
peace — of  a  spirit  resting  there  in  bliss — of  a  day  when  his 
spirit  shall  also  alight  there,  free  and  disembodied — of  a  re- 
union perfected  by  love,  purified  from  fear — he  takes  courage 
— goes  out  to  encounter  the  necessities  and  discharge  the 
duties  of  life ;  and,  though  sadness  may  never  lift  her 
burden  from  his  mind,  Hope  will  enable  him  to  support  it. 

Well— and  what  suggested  all  this?  and  what  is  the 
inference  to  be  drawn  therefrom  ?  What  suggested  it,  is  the 
circumstance  of  my  best  pupil — my  treasure — being  snatched 
from  my  hands,  and  put  away  out  of  my  reach ;  the 
inference  to  be  drawn  from  it  is — that,  being  a  steady, 
reasonable  man,  I  did  not  allow  the  resentment,  disap- 
pointment, and  grief,  engendered  in  my  mind  by  this  evil 
chance,  to  grow  there  to  any  monstrous  size  ;  nor  did  I 
allow  them  to  monopolize  the  whole  space  of  my  heart ;  I 
pent  them,  on  the  contrary,  in  one  strait  and  secret  nook. 
In  the  daytime,  too,  when  I  was  about  my  duties,  I  put 
them  on  the  silent  system  ;  and  it  was  only  after  I  had 
closed  the  door  of  my  chamber  at  night  that  I  somewhat 
relaxed  my  severity  towards  these  morose  nurslings,  and 
allowed  vent  to  their  language  of  murmurs ;  then,  in 
revenge,  they  sat  on  my  pillow,  haunted  my  bed,  and  kept 
me  awake  with  their  long  midnight  cry. 

A  week  passed.  I  had  said  nothing  more  to  Mdlle. 
Beuter.  I  had  been  calm  in  my  demeanour  to  her,  though 


THE   PEOFESSOR  165 

stony  cold  and  hard.  When  I  looked  at  her,  it  was  with 
the  glance  fitting  to  be  bestowed  on  one  who  I  knew  had 
consulted  jealousy  as  an  adviser,  and  employed  treachery  as 
an  instrument — the  glance  of  quiet  disdain  and  rooted 
distrust.  On  Saturday  evening,  ere  I  left  the  house,  I  stept 
into  the  salle  a  maiiger,  where  she  was  sitting  alone,  and, 
placing  myself  before  her,  I  asked,  with  the  same  tranquil 
tone  and  manner  that  I  should  have  used  had  I  put  the 
question  for  the  first  time — '  Mademoiselle,  will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  give  me  the  address  of  Frances  Evans 
Henri  ? ' 

A  little  surprised,  but  not  disconcerted,  she  smilingly 
disclaimed  any  knowledge  of  that  address,  adding, '  Monsieur 
has  perhaps  forgotten  that  I  explained  all  about  that  circum- 
stance before—  a  week  ago  ? ' 

'  Mademoiselle,'  I  continued,  '  you  would  greatly  oblige 
me  by  directing  me  to  that  young  person's  abode." 

She  seemed  somewhat  puzzled  ;  and,  at  last,  looking  up 
with  an  admirably  counterfeited  air  of  naivete,  she  de- 
manded, '  Does  Monsieur  think  I  am  telling  an  untruth  ? ' 

Still  avoiding  to  give  her  a  direct  answer,  I  said,  '  It  is 
not  then  your  intention,  Mademoiselle,  to  oblige  me  in  this 
particular  ? ' 

'  But,  Monsieur,  how  can  I  tell  you  what  I  do  not 
know  ? ' 

1  Very  well ;  I  understand  you  perfectly,  Mademoiselle  ; 
and  now  I  have  only  two  or  three  words  to  say.  This  is  the 
last  week  in  July ;  in  another  month  the  vacation  will 
commence ;  have  the  goodness  to  avail  yourself  of  the 
leisure  it  will  afford  you  to  look  out  for  another  English 
master — at  the  close  of  August  I  shall  be  under  the 
necessity  of  resigning  my  post  in  your  establishment.' 

I  did  not  wait  for  her  comments  on  this  announcement, 
but  bowed  and  immediately  withdrew. 

That  same  evening,  soon  after  dinner,  a  servant  brought 
me  a  small  packet ;  it  was  directed  in  a  hand  I  knew,  but 
had  not  hoped  so  soon  to  see  again  ;  being  in  my  own 


166  THE  PROFESSOR 

apartment  and  alone,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  my 
immediately  opening  it ;  it  contained  four  five-franc  pieces, 
and  a  note  in  English. 

'  MONSIEUR, — 

'I  CAME  to  Mdlle.  Renter's  house  yesterday,  at  the 
time  when  I  knew  you  would  be  just  about  finishing  your 
lesson,  and  I  asked  if  I  might  go  into  the  schoolroom  and 
speak  to  you.  Mdlle.  Renter  came  out  and  said  you  were 
already  gone ;  it  had  not  yet  struck  four,  so  I  thought  she 
must  be  mistaken,  but  concluded  it  would  be  vain  to  call 
another  day  on  the  same  errand  In  one  sense  a  note  will  do 
as  well — it  will  wrap  up  the  20  francs,  the  price  of  the  lessons 
I  have  received  from  you  ;  and  if  it  will  not  fully  express  the 
thanks  I  owe  you  in  addition — if  it  will  not  bid  you  good-by 
as  I  could  wish  to  have  done — if  it  will  not  tell  you,  as  I 
long  to  do,  how  sorry  I  am  that  I  shall  probably  never 
see  you  more — why,  spoken  words  would  hardly  be  more 
adequate  to  the  task.  Had  I  seen  you,  I  should  probably 
have  stammered  out  something  feeble  and  unsatisfactory — 
something  belying  my  feelings  rather  than  explaining  them  ; 
so  it  is  perhaps  as  well  that  I  was  denied  admission  to  your 
piesence.  You  often  remarked,  Monsieur,  that  my  devoirs 
dwelt  a  great  deal  on  fortitude  in  bearing  grief — you  said  I 
introduced  that  theme  too  often  :  I  find  indeed  that  it  is  much 
easier  to  write  about  a  severe  duty  than  to  perform  it,  for  I 
am  oppressed  when  I  see  and  feel  to  what  a  reverse  fate  has 
condemned  me  ;  you  were  kind  to  me,  Monsieur — very  kind  ; 
I  am  afflicted— I  am  heart-broken  to  be  quite  separated 
from  you ;  soon  I  shall  have  no  friend  on  earth.  But  it  is 
useless  troubling  you  with  my  distresses.  What  claim 
have  I  on  your  sympathy  ?  None  ;  I  will  then  say  no 

more. 

1  Farewell,  Monsieur, 

'  F.  E.  HENRI.' 

I  put  up  the  note  in  my  pocket-book.     I  slipped  the  five- 


THE   PKOFESSOR  167 

franc  pieces  into  my  purse — then  I  took  a  turn  through  my 
narrow  chamber. 

'  Mdlle.  Eeuter  talked  about  her  poverty,'  said  I,  '  and 
she  is  poor ;  yet  she  pays  her  debts  and  more.  I  have  not 
yet  given  her  a  quarter's  lessons,  and  she  has  sent  me  a 
quarter's  due.  I  wonder  of  what  she  deprived  herself  to 
scrape  together  the  twenty  francs — I  wonder  what  sort  of  a 
place  she  has  to  live  in,  and  what  sort  of  a  woman  her  aunt 
is,  and  whether  she  is  likely  to  get  employment  to  supply 
the  place  she  has  lost.  No  doubt  she  will  have  to  trudge 
about  long  enough  from  school  to  school,  to  inquire  here, 
and  apply  there — be  rejected  in  this  place,  disappointed  in 
that.  Many  an  evening  she'll  go  to  her  bed  tired  and  un- 
successful. And  the  directress  would  not  let  her  in  to  bid 
me  good-by  ?  I  might  not  have  the  chance  of  standing  with 
her  for  a  few  minutes  at  a  window  in  the  schoolroom  and 
exchanging  some  half-dozen  of  sentences — getting  to  know 
where  she  lived — putting  matters  in  train  for  having  all 
things  arranged  to  my  mind  ?  No  address  on  the  note  ' — I 
continued,  drawing  it  again  from  the  pocket-book  and 
examining  it  on  each  side  of  the  two  leaves  :  '  women  are 
women,  that  is  certain,  and  always  do  business  like  women  ; 
men  mechanically  put  a  date  and  address  to  their  communi- 
cations. And  these  five-franc  pieces  ? ' — (I  hauled  them 
forth  from  my  purse) — '  if  she  had  offered  me  them  herself 
instead  of  tying  them  up  with  a  thread  of  green  silk  in  a 
kind  of  Liliputian  packet,  I  could  have  thrust  them  back 
into  her  little  hand,  and  shut  up  the  small,  taper  fingers 
over  them— so — and  compelled  her  shame,  her  pride,  her 
shyness,  all  to  yield  to  a  little  bit  of  determined  Will — now 
where  is  she  ?  How  can  I  get  at  her  ?  ' 

Opening  my  chamber  door,  I  walked  down  into  the 
kitchen. 

'  Who  brought  the  packet  ?  '  I  asked  of  the  servant  who 
had  delivered  it  to  me. 

'  Un  petit  commissionnaire,  Monsieur.' 

'  Did  he  say  anything?  ' 


168  THE   PROFESSOR 

4  Rien.' 

And  I  wended  my  way  up  the  back-stairs,  wondrously  the 
wiser  for  my  inquiries. 

'  No  matter,'  said  I  to  myself,  as  I  again  closed  the  door. 
4  No  matter— I'll  seek  her  through  Brussels.' 

And  I  did.  I  sought  her  day  by  day  whenever  I  had  a 
moment's  leisure,  for  four  weeks ;  I  sought  her  on  Sundays 
all  day  long ;  I  sought  her  on  the  Boulevards,  in  the  All6e 
Verte,  in  the  Park ;  I  sought  her  in  St.  Gudule  and 
St.  Jacques ;  I  sought  her  in  the  two  Protestant  chapels ;  I 
attended  these  latter  at  the  German,  French,  and  English 
services,  not  doubting  that  I  should  meet  her  at  one  of  them. 
All  my  researches  were  absolutely  fruitless  ;  my  security  on 
the  last  point  was  proved  by  the  event  to  be  equally  ground- 
less with  my  other  calculations.  I  stood  at  the  door  of  each 
chapel  after  the  service,  and  waited  till  every  individual  had 
come  out,  scrutinizing  every  gown  draping  a  slender  form, 
peering  under  every  bonnet  covering  a  young  head.  In  vain ; 
I  saw  girlish  figures  pass  me,  drawing  their  black  scarfs 
over  their  sloping  shoulders,  but  none  of  them  had  the  exact 
turn  and  air  of  Mdlle.  Henri's  ;  I  saw  pale  and  thoughtful 
faces  '  encadrees  '  in  bands  of  brown  hair,  but  I  never  found 
her  forehead,  her  eyes,  her  eyebrows.  All  the  features  of  all 
the  faces  I  met  seemed  frittered  away,  because  my  eye  failed 
to  recognise  the  peculiarities  it  was  bent  upon  ;  an  ample 
space  of  brow  and  a  large,  dark,  and  serious  eye,  with  a  fine 
but  decided  line  of  eyebrow  traced  above. 

'  She  has  probably  left  Brussels — perhaps  is  gone  to 
England,  as  she  said  she  would,'  muttered  I  inwardly,  as  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  Sunday  I  turned  from  the  door 
of  the  chapel-royal,  which  the  door-keeper  had  just  closed 
and  locked,  and  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  last  of  the  con- 
gregation, now  dispersed  and  dispersing  over  the  square.  I 
had  soon  outwalked  the  couples  of  English  gentlemen 
and  ladies.  (Gracious  goodness  !  why  don't  they  dress 
better?  My  eye  is  yet  filled  with  visions  of  the  high- 
flounced,  slovenly,  and  tumbled  dresses,  in  costly  silk  ami 


THE  PEOFESSOR  169 

satin ;  of  the  large  unbecoming  collars  in  expensive  lace  ;  of 
the  ill-cut  coats  and  strangely-fashioned  pantaloons  which 
every  Sunday,  at  the  English  service,  filled  the  choirs  of  the 
chapel-royal,  and  after  it,  issuing  forth  into  the  square,  came 
into  disadvantageous  contrast  with  freshly  and  trimly 
attired  foreign  figures,  hastening  to  attend  salut  at  the 
church  of  Coburg.)  I  had  passed  these  pairs  of  Britons, 
and  the  groups  of  pretty  British  children,  and  the  British 
footmen  and  waiting-maids ;  I  had  crossed  the  Place  Royale, 
and  got  into  the  Rue  Royale,  thence  I  had  diverged  into  the 
Rue  de  Louvain — an  old  and  quiet  street.  I  remember  that, 
feeling  a  little  hungry,  and  not  desiring  to  go  back  and  take 
my  share  of  the  '  gouter,'  now  on  the  refectory  table  at 
Pelet's — to  wit,  pistolets  and  water — I  stepped  into  a  baker's 
and  refreshed  myself  on  a  couc  (?) — it  is  a  Flemish  word,  I 
don't  know  how  to  spell  it — a  CorintJic.—anglic&,  a  currant 
bun — and  a  cup  of  coffee  ;  and  then  I  strolled  on  towards 
the  Porte  de  Louvain.  Very  soon  I  was  out  of  the  city,  and 
slowly  mounting  the  hill,  which  ascends  from  the  gate  :  I 
took  my  time  ;  for  the  afternoon,  though  cloudy,  was  very 
sultry,  and  not  a  breeze  stirred  to  refresh  the  atmosphere. 
No  inhabitant  of  Brussels  need  wander  far  to  search  for 
solitude  ;  let  him  but  move  half  a  league  from  his  own  city 
and  he  will  find  her  brooding  still  and  blank  over  the  wide 
fields,  so  drear  though  so  fertile,  spread  out  treeless  and 
trackless  round  the  capital  of  Brabant.  Having  gained  the 
summit  of  the  hill,  and  having  stood  and  looked  long  over  the 
cultured  but  lifeless  champaign,  I  felt  a  wish  to  quit  the 
high-road,  which  I  had  hitherto  followed,  and  get  in  among 
those  tilled  grounds — fertile  as  the  beds  of  a  Brobdingnagian 
kitchen-garden — spreading  far  and  wide  even  to  the 
boundaries  of  the  horizon,  where,  from  a  dusk  green,  dis- 
tance changed  them  to  a  sullen  blue,  and  confused  their  tints 
with  those  of  the  livid  and  thunderous-looking  sky.  Accord- 
ingly I  turned  up  a  by-path  to  the  right ;  I  had  not  followed 
it  far  ere  it  brought  rue,  as  I  expected,  into  the  fields,  amidst 
which,  just  before  me,  stretched  a  long  and  lofty  white  wall 


170  THE  PROFESSOR 

enclosing,  as  it  seemed  from  the  foliage  showing  above,  some 
thickly  planted  nursery  of  yew  and  cypress,  for  of  that 
species  were  the  branches  resting  on  the  pale  parapets,  and 
crowding  gloomily  about  a  massive  cross,  planted  doubtless 
on  a  central  eminence,  and  extending  its  arms,  which  seemed 
of  black  marble,  over  the  summits  of  those  sinister  trees.  I 
approached,  wondering  to  what  house  this  well -protected 
garden  appertained.  I  turned  the  angle  of  the  wall,  thinking 
to  see  some  stately  residence ;  I  was  close  upon  great  iron 
gates  ;  there  was  a  hut  serving  for  a  lodge  near,  but  I  had 
no  occasion  to  apply  for  the  key — the  gates  were  open ;  I 
pushed  one  leaf  back — rain  had  rusted  its  hinges,  for  it 
groaned  dolefully  as  they  revolved.  Thick  planting  em- 
bowered the  entrance.  Passing  up  the  avenue,  I  saw 
objects  on  each  hand,  which,  in  their  own  mute  language  of 
inscription  and  sign,  explained  clearly  to  what  abode  I  had 
made  my  wray.  This  was  the  house  appointed  for  all  living  ; 
crosses,  monuments,  and  garlands  of  everlastings  an- 
nounced, '  The  Protestant  Cemetery,  outside  the  gate  of 
Louvain.' 

The  place  was  large  enough  to  afford  half-an-hour's 
strolling  without  the  monotony  of  treading  continually  the 
same  path  ;  and,  for  those  who  love  to  peruse  the  annals  of 
graveyards,  here  was  variety  of  inscription  enough  to  occupy 
the  attention  for  double  or  treble  that  space  of  time.  Hither 
people  of  many  kindreds,  tongues,  and  nations  had  brought 
their  dead  for  interment ;  and  here,  on  pages  of  stone,  of 
marble,  and  of  brass,  were  written  names,  dates,  last  tributes 
of  pomp  or  love,  in  English,  in  French,  in  German,  and 
Latin.  Here  the  Englishman  had  erected  a  marble  monu- 
ment over  the  remains  of  his  Mary  Smith  or  Jane  Brown 
and  inscribed  it  only  with  her  name.  There  the  French 
widower  had  shaded  the  grave  of  his  Elmire  or  Celestine 
with  a  brilliant  thicket  of  roses,  amidst  which  a  little  tablet 
rising  bore  an  equally  bright  testimony  to  her  countless 
virtues.  Every  nation,  tribe,  and  kindred,  mourned  after  its 
own  fashion ;  and  how  soundless  was  the  mourning  of  all ! 


THE  PKOFESSOR  171 

My  own  tread,  though  slow  and  upon  smooth-rolled  paths, 
seemed  to  startle,  because  it  formed  the  sole  break  to  a 
silence  otherwise  total.  Not  only  the  winds,  but  the  very 
fitful,  wandering  airs,  were  that  afternoon,  as  by  common 
consent,  all  fallen  asleep  in  their  various  quarters  ;  the  north 
was  hushed,  the  south  silent,  the  east  sobbed  not,  nor  did 
the  west  whisper.  The  clouds  in  heaven  were  condensed  and 
dull,  but  apparently  quite  motionless.  Under  the  trees  of 
this  cemetery  nestled  a  warm  breathless  gloom,  out  of  which 
the  cypresses  stood  up  straight  and  mute,  above  which  the 
willows  hung  low  and  still ;  where  the  flowers,  as  languid  as 
fair,  waited  listless  for  night  dew  or  thunder-shower  ;  where 
the  tombs,  and  those  they  hid,  lay  impassable  to  sun  or 
shadow,  to  rain  or  drought. 

Importuned  by  the  sound  of  my  own  footsteps,  I  turned 
off  upon  the  turf,  and  slowly  advanced  to  a  grove  of  yews ;  I 
saw  something  stir  among  the  stems ;  I  thought  it  might  be 
a  broken  branch  swinging— my  short-sighted  vision  had 
caught  no  form,  only  a  sense  of  motion ;  but  the  dusky 
shade  passed  on,  appearing  and  disappearing  at  the  openings 
in  the  avenue.  I  soon  discerned  it  was  a  living  thing,  and  a 
human  thing  ;  and,  drawing  nearer,  I  perceived  it  was  a 
woman,  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro,  and  evidently  deeming 
herself  alone  as  I  had  deemed  myself  alone,  and  meditating 
as  I  had  been  meditating.  Ere  long  she  returned  to  a  seat 
which  I  fancy  she  had  but  just  quitted,  or  I  should  have 
caught  sight  of  her  before.  It  was  in  a  nook,  screened  by  a 
clump  of  trees ;  there  was  the  white  wall  before  her,  and  a 
little  stone  set  up  against  the  wall,  and,  at  the  foot  of  the 
stone,  was  an  allotment  of  turf  freshly  turned  up,  a  new- 
made  grave.  I  put  on  my  spectacles,  and  passed  softly  close 
behind  her  ;  glancing  at  the  inscription  on  the  stone,  I  read, 
'  Julienne  Henri,  died  at  Brussels,  aged  sbcty.  August  10th, 
18 — .'  Having  perused  the  inscription,  I  looked  down  at  the 
form  sitting  bent  and  thoughtful  just  under  my  eyes,  uncon- 
scious of  the  vicinity  of  any  living  thing  ;  it  was  a  slim, 
youthful  figure  in  mourning  apparel  of  the  plainest  black 


172 

stuff,  with  a  little  simple,  black  crape  bonnet ;  I  felt,  as  well 
as  saw,  who  it  was  ;  and,  moving  neither  hand  nor  foot,  I 
stood  some  moments  enjoying  the  security  of  conviction.  I 
had  sought  her  for  a  month,  and  had  never  discovered  one  of 
her  traces — never  met  a  hope,  or  seized  a  chance  of  en- 
countering her  anywhere.  I  had  been  forced  to  loosen  my 
grasp  on  expectation  ;  and,  but  an  hour  ago,  had  sunk  slackly 
under  the  discouraging  thought  that  the  current  of  life,  and 
the  impulse  of  destiny,  had  swept  her  for  ever  from  my  reach  ; 
and,  behold,  while  bending  suddenly  earthward  beneath  the 
pressure  of  despondency— while  following  with  my  eyes  the 
track  of  sorrow  on  the  turf  of  a  graveyard — here  was  my  lost 
jewel  dropped  on  the  tear-fed  herbage,  nestling  in  the  mossy 
and  mouldy  roots  of  yew-trees. 

Frances  sat  very  quiet,  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  and  her 
head  on  her  hand.  I  knew  she  could  retain  a  thinking 
attitude  a  long  time  without  change  ;  at  last,  a  tear  fell ; 
she  had  been  looking  at  the  name  on  the  stone  before  her, 
and  her  heart  had  no  doubt  endured  one  of  those  constric- 
tions with  which  the  desolate  living,  regretting  the  dead,  are, 
at  times,  so  sorely  oppressed.  Many  tears  rolled  down, 
which  she  wiped  away,  again  and  again,  with  her  handker- 
chief; some  distressed  sobs  escaped  her,  and  then,  the 
paroxysm  over,  she  sat  quiet  as  before.  I  put  my  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder  :  no  need  further  to  prepare  her,  for 
she  was  neither  hysterical  nor  liable  to  fainting  fits.  A 
sudden  push,  indeed,  might  have  startled  her,  but  the  con- 
tact of  my  quiet  touch  merely  woke  attention,  as  I  wished  ; 
and,  though  she  turned  quickly,  yet  so  lightning-swift  is 
thought,  in  some  minds  especially,  I  believe  the  wonder  of 
what — the  consciousness  of  who  it  was  that  thus  stole  una- 
wares on  her  solitude,  had  passed  through  her  brain,  and 
flashed  into  her  heart,  even  before  she  had  effected  that  hasty 
movement;  at  least,  Amazement  had  hardly  opened  her  eyes 
and  raised  them  to  mine,  ere  Recognition  informed  their  irids 
with  most  speaking  brightness.  Nervous  surprise  had 
hardly  discomposed  her  features  ere  a  sentiment  of  most  vivid 


PROCESSOR 

joy  shone  clear  and  warm  on  her  whole  countenance.  I  had 
hardly  time  to  observe  that  she  was  wasted  and  pale,  ere 
called  to  feel  a  responsive  inward  pleasure  by  the  sense  of 
most  full  and  exquisite  pleasure  glowing  in  the  animated 
flush,  and  shining  in  the  expansive  light,  now  diffused  over 
my  pupil's  face.  It  was  the  summer  sun  flashing  out  after 
the  heavy  summer  shower ;  and  what  fertilises  more  rapidly 
than  that  beam,  burning  almost  like  fire  in  its  ardour  ? 

I  hate  boldness — that  boldness  which  is  of  the  brassy 
brow  and  insensate  nerves  ;  but  I  love  the  courage  of  the 
strong  heart,  the  fervour  of  the  generous  blood ;  I  loved  with 
passion  the  light  of  Frances  Evans'  clear  hazel  eye  when  it 
did  not  fear  to  look  straight  into  mine ;  I  loved  the  tones 
with  which  she  uttered  the  words — '  Mon  maltre !  mon 
maltre ! ' 

I  loved  the  movement  with  which  she  confided  her  hand 
to  my  hand ;  I  loved  her  as  she  stood  there,  penniless  and 
parentless ;  for  a  sensualist  charmless,  for  me  a  treasure — 
my  best  object  of  sympathy  on  earth,  thinking  such  thoughts 
as  I  thought,  feeling  such  feelings  as  I  felt ;  my  ideal  of  the 
shrine  in  which  to  seal  my  stores  of  love ;  personification  of 
discretion  and  forethought,  of  diligence  and  perseverance,  of 
self-denial  and  self-control — those  guardians,  those  trusty 
keepers  of  the  gift  I  longed  to  confer  on  her — the  gift  of  all 
my  affections  ;  model  of  truth  and  honour,  of  independence 
and  conscientiousness — those  refiners  and  sustainers  of  an 
honest  life ;  silent  possessor  of  a  well  of  tenderness,  of  a 
flame,  as  genial  as  still,  as  pure  as  quenchless,  of  natural 
feeling,  natural  passion — those  sources  of  refreshment  and 
comfort  to  the  sanctuary  of  home.  I  knew  how  quietly  and 
how  deeply  the  well  bubbled  in  her  heart ;  I  knew  how  the 
more  dangerous  flame  burned  safely  under  the  eye  of  reason  ; 
I  had  seen  when  the  fire  shot  up  a  moment  high  and  vivid, 
when  the  accelerated  heat  troubled  life's  current  in  its 
channels  ;  I  had  seen  reason  reduce  the  rebel,  and  humble  its 
blaze  to  embers.  I  had  confidence  in  Frances  Evans  ;  I  had 
respect  for  her,  and  as  I  drew  her  arm  through  mine,  and 


174  THE  PROFESSOR 

led  her  out  of  the  cernatery,  I  felt  I  had  another  sentiment, 
as  strong  as  confidence,  as  firm  as  respect,  more  fervid  than 
either — that  of  love. 

'  Well,  my  pupil,'  said  I,  as  the  ominous-sounding  gate 
swung  to  behind  us — '  Well,  I  have  found  you  again :  a 
month's  search  has  seemed  long,  and  I  little  thought  to  have 
discovered  my  lost  sheep  straying  amongst  graves.' 

Never  had  I  addressed  her  but  as  '  Mademoiselle  '  before, 
and  to  speak  thus  was  to  take  up  a  tone  new  to  both  her  and 
me.  Her  answer  apprised  me  that  this  language  ruffled 
none  of  her  feelings,  woke  no  discord  in  her  heart : — 

'  Mon  maitre,1  she  said,  '  have  you  troubled  yourself  to 
seek  me  ?  I  little  imagined  you  would  think  much  of  my 
absence,  but  I  grieved  bitterly  to  be  taken  away  from  you.  I 
was  sorry  for  that  circumstance  when  heavier  troubles  ought 
to  have  made  me  forget  it.' 

'  Your  aunt  is  dsad  ? ' 

'  Yes,  a  fortnight  since,  and  she  died  full  of  regret,  which 
I  could  not  chase  from  her  mind ;  she  kept  repeating,  even 
during  the  last  night  of  her  existence,  "  Frances,  you  will  be 
so  lonely  when  I  am  gone,  so  friendless :  "  she  wished  too 
that  she  could  have  been  buried  in  Switzerland,  and  it  was  I 
who  persuaded  her  in  her  old  age  to  leave  the  banks  of  Lake 
Leman,  and  to  come,  only  as  it  seems  to  die,  in  this  flat 
region  of  Flanders.  Willingly  would  I  have  observed  her 
last  wish,  and  taken  her  i*emains  back  to  our  own  country, 
but  that  was  impossible ;  I  was  forced  to  lay  her  here.' 

'  She  was  ill  but  a  short  time,  I  presume  ? ' 

'  But  three  weeks.  When  she  began  to  sink  I  asked 
Mdlle.  Reuter's  leave  to  stay  with  her  and  wait  on  her  ; 
I  readily  got  leave.' 

'  Do  you  return  to  the  pensionnat  ? '  I  demanded  hastily. 

'  Monsieur,  when  I  had  been  at  home  a  week  Mdlle. 
Reuter  called  one  evening,  just  after  I  had  got  my  aunt  to 
bed ;  she  went  into  her  room  to  speak  to  her,  and  was 
extremely  civil  and  affable,  as  she  always  is ;  afterwards  she 
came  and  sat  with  me  a  long  time,  and  just  as  she  rose  to  go 


THE   PROFESSOE  175 

away,  she  said :  "  Mademoiselle,  I  shall  not  soon  cease  to 
regret  your  departure  from  my  establishment,  though  indeed 
it  is  true  that  you  have  taught  your  class  of  pupils  so  well 
that  they  are  all  quite  accomplished  in  the  little  works  you 
manage  so  skilfully,  and  have  not  the  slightest  need  of 
further  instruction ;  my  second  teacher  must  in  future  supply 
your  place,  with  regard  to  the  younger  pupils,  as  well  as  she 
can,  though  she  is  indeed  an  inferior  artiste  to  you,  and 
doubtless  it  will  be  your  part  now  to  assume  a  higher 
position  in  your  calling ;  I  am  sure  you  will  everywhere  find 
schools  and  families  willing  to  profit  by  your  talents."  And 
then  she  paid  me  my  last  quarter's  salary.  I  asked,  as 
Mademoiselle  would  no  doubt  think,  very  bluntly,  if  she 
designed  to  discharge  me  from  the  establishment.  She 
smiled  at  my  inelegance  of  speech,  and  answered  that  "  our 
connection  as  employer  and  employed  was  certainly  dissolved, 
but  that  she  hoped  still  to  retain  the  pleasure  of  my  acquaint- 
ance ;  she  should  always  be  happy  to  see  me  as  a  friend ;  " 
and  then  she  said  something  about  the  excellent  condition  of 
the  streets,  and  the  long  continuance  of  fine  weather,  and 
went  away  quite  cheerful.' 

I  laughed  inwardly ;  all  this  was  so  like  the  directress — 
BO  like  what  I  had  expected  and  guessed  of  her  conduct ;  and 
then  the  exposure  and  proof  of  her  lie,  unconsciously 
afforded  by  Frances : — '  She  had  frequently  applied  for 
Mdlle.  Henri's  address,'  forsooth  ;  '  Mdlle.  Henri  had  always 
evaded  giving  it,'  &c.  &c.,  and  here  I  found  her  a  visitor  at 
the  very  house  of  whose  locality  she  had  professed  absolute 
ignorance ! 

Any  comments  I  might  have  intended  to  make  on  my 
pupil's  communication  were  checked  by  the  plashing  of 
large  rain-drops  on  our  faces  and  on  the  path,  and  by  the 
muttering  of  a  distant  but  coming  storm.  The  warning 
obvious  in  stagnant  air  and  leaden  sky  had  already  induced 
me  to  take  the  road  leading  back  to  Brussels,  and  now  I 
hastened  my  own  steps  and  those  of  my  companion,  and,  as 
our  way  lay  downhill,  we  got  on  rapidly.  There  was  an. 


176  THE  PROFESSOR 

interval  after  the  fall  of  the  first  broad  drops  before  heavy 
rain  came  on  ;  in  the  meantime  we  had  passed  through  the 
Porte  de  Louvain,  and  were  again  in  the  city. 

'  Where  do  you  live  ?  '  I  asked ;  '  I  will  see  you  safe 
home.' 

'  Rue  Notre-Dame  aux  Neiges,'  answered  Frances. 

It  was  not  far  from  the  Rue  de  Louvain,  and  we  stood  on 
the  doorsteps  of  the  house  we  sought  ere  the  clouds,  severing 
with  loud  peal  and  shattered  cataract  of  lightning,  emptied 
their  livid  folds  in  a  torrent,  heavy,  prone,  and  broad. 

'  Come  in  !  come  in  ! '  said  Frances,  as,  after  putting  her 
into  the  house,  I  paused  ere  I  followed :  the  word  decided 
me  ;  I  stepped  across  the  threshold,  shut  the  door  on  the 
rushing,  flashing,  whitening  storm,  and  followed  her  upstairs 
to  her  apartments.  Neither  she  nor  I  were  wet ;  a  projection 
over  the  door  had  warded  off  the  straight-descending  flood  ; 
none  but  the  first  large  drops  had  touched  our  garments ; 
one  minute  more  and  we  should  not  have  had  a  dry  thread 
on  us. 

Stepping  over  a  little  mat  of  green  wool,  I  found  myself 
in  a  small  room  with  a  painted  floor  and  a  square  of  green 
carpet  in  the  middle  ;  the  articles  of  furniture  were  few,  but 
all  bright  and  exquisitely  clean  ;  order  reigned  through  its 
narrow  limits — such  order  as  it  soothed  my  punctilious  soul 
to  behold.  And  I  had  hesitated  to  enter  the  abode,  because 
I  apprehended  after  all  that  Mdlle.  Reuter's  hint  about  its 
extreme  poverty  might  be  too  well  founded,  and  I  feared  to 
embarrass  the  lace-mender  by  entering  her  lodgings  unawares  ! 
Poor  the  place  might  be ;  poor  truly  it  was ;  but  its  neatness 
was  better  than  elegance,  and  had  but  a  bright  little  fire 
shone  on  that  clean  hearth,  I  should  have  deemed  it  more 
attractive  than  a  palace.  No  fire  was  there,  however,  and 
no  fuel  laid  ready  to  light ;  the  lace-mender  was  unable  to 
allow  herself  that  indulgence,  especially  now  when,  deprived 
by  death  of  her  sole  relative,  she  had  only  her  own  unaided 
exertions  to  rely  on.  Frances  went  into  an  inner  room  to 
take  off  her  bonnet,  and  she  came  out  a  model  of  frugal 


THE  PROFESSOR  377 

neatness,  with  her  well-fitting  black  stuff  dress,  so  accurately 
defining  her  elegant  bust  and  taper  waist,  with  her  spotless 
white  collar  turned  back  from  a  fair  and  shapely  neck,  with 
her  plenteous  brown  hair  arranged  in  smooth  bands  on  her 
temples,  and  in  her  large  Grecian  plait  behind  :  ornaments 
she  had  none — neither  brooch,  ring,  nor  ribbon  ;  she  did  well 
enough  without  them — perfection  of  fit,  proportion  of  form, 
grace  of  carriage,  agreeably  supplied  their  place.  Her  eye, 
as  she  re-entered  the  small  sitting-room,  instantly  sought 
mine,  which  was  just  then  lingering  on  the  hearth ;  I  knew 
she  read  at  once  the  sort  of  inward  ruth  and  pitying  pain 
which  the  chill  vacancy  of  that  hearth  stirred  in  my  soul : 
quick  to  penetrate,  quick  to  determine,  and  quicker  to  put  in 
practice,  she  had  in  a  moment  tied  a  holland  apron  round 
her  waist ;  then  she  disappeared,  and  reappeared  with  a 
basket ;  it  had  a  cover  ;  she  opened  it,  and  produced  wood 
and  coal ;  deftly  and  compactly  she  arranged  them  in  the 
grate. 

'  It  is  her  whole  stock,  and  she  will  exhaust  it  out  of 
hospitality,'  thought  I. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? '  I  asked :  '  not  surely  to 
light  a  fire  this  hot  evening  ?  I  shall  be  smothered.' 

'  Indeed,  Monsieur,  I  feel  it  very  chilly  since  the  rain 
began  ;  besides,  I  must  boil  the  water  for  my  tea,  for  I  take 
tea  on  Sundays;  you  will  be  obliged  to  try  and  bear  the 
heat.' 

She  had  struck  a  light ;  the  wood  was  already  in  a  blaze ; 
and  truly,  when  contrasted  with  the  darkness,  the  wild 
tumult  of  the  tempest  without,  that  peaceful  glow  which 
began  to  beam  on  the  now  animated  hearth  seemed  very 
cheering.  A  low,  purring  sound,  from  some  quarter, 
announced  that  another  being,  besides  myself,  was  pleased 
with  the  change ;  a  black  cat,  roused  by  the  light  from  its 
sleep  on  a  little  cushioned  foot-stool,  came  and  rubbed  its 
head  against  Frances'  gown  as  she  knelt ;  she  caressed  it, 
saying  it  had  been  a  favourite  with  her  '  pauvre  tante 
Julienne.' 


178  THE   PEOFESSOE 

The  fire  being  lit,  the  hearth  swept,  and  a  small  kettle  of 
a  very  antique  pattern,  such  as  I  thought  I  remembered  to 
have  seen  in  old  farmhouses  in  England,  placed  over  the  now 
ruddy  flame,  Frances'  hands  were  washed,  and  her  apron 
removed  in  an  instant ;  then  she  opened  a  cupboard,  and 
took  out  a  tea-tray,  on  which  she  had  soon  arranged  a  china 
tea-equipage,  whose  pattern,  shape,  and  size,  denoted  a  remote 
antiquity  ;  a  little,  old-fashioned  silver  spoon  was  deposited 
in  each  saucer;  and  a  pair  of  silver  tongs,  equally  old- 
fashioned,  were  laid  on  the  sugar-basin  ;  from  the  cupboard, 
too,  was  produced  a  tiny  silver  cream -ewer,  not  larger  than 
an  egg-shell.  While  making  these  preparations,  she  chanced 
to  look  up,  and,  reading  curiosity  in  my  eyes,  she  smiled  and 
asked — '  Is  this  like  England,  Monsieur  ? ' 

'  Like  the  England  of  a  hundred  years  ago,'  I  replied. 

'  Is  it  truly  ?  Well,  everything  on  this  tray  is  at  least  a 
hundred  years  old  :  these  cups,  these  spoons,  this  ewer,  are 
all  heirlooms  ;  my  great-grandmother  left  them  to  my  grand- 
mother, she  to  my  mother,  and  my  mother  brought  them 
with  her  from  England  to  Switzerland,  and  left  them  to  me  ; 
and,  ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  have  thought  I  should 
like  to  carry  them  back  to  England,  whence  they  came.' 

She  put  some  pistolets  on  the  table  ;  she  made  the  tea,  as 
foreigners  do  make  tea — i.e.,  at  the  rate  of  a  teaspoonful  to 
half-a-dozen  cups ;  she  placed  me  in  a  chair,  and,  as  I  took 
it,  she  asked,  with  a  sort  of  exultation — '  Will  it  make  you 
think  yourself  at  home  for  a  moment  ?  ' 

'  If  I  had  a  home  in  England,  I  believe  it  would  recall  it,1 
I  answered ;  and,  in  truth,  there  was  a  sort  of  illusion  in 
seeing  the  fair-complexioned  English-looking  girl  presiding 
at  the  English  meal,  and  speaking  in  the  English  language. 

'  You  have  then  no  home  ? '  was  her  remark. 

'  None,  nor  ever  have  had.  If  ever  I  possess  a  home,  it 
must  be  of  my  own  making,  and  the  task  is  yet  to  begin.' 

And,  as  I  spoke,  a  pang,  new  to  me,  shot  across  my 
heart :  it  was  a  pang  of  mortification  at  the  humility  of  my 
position,  and  the  inadequacy  of  my  means  ;  while  with  that 


THE   PEOFESSOR  179 

pang  was  born  a  strong  desire  to  do  more,  earn  more,  be 
more,  possess  more ;  and  in  the  increased  possessions,  my 
roused  and  eager  spirit  panted  to  include  the  home  I  had 
never  had,  the  wife  I  inwardly  vowed  to  win. 

Frances'  tea  was  little  better  than  hot  water,  sugar,  and 
milk ;  and  her  pistolets,  with  which  she  could  not  offer  me 
butter,  were  sweet  to  my  palate  as  manna. 

The  repast  over,  and  the  treasured  plate  and  porcelain 
being  washed  and  put  by,  the  bright  table  rubbed  still 
brighter,  '  le  chat  de  ma  tante  Julienne '  also  being  fed  with 
provisions  brought  forth  on  a  plate  for  its  special  use,  a  few 
stray  cinders,  and  a  scattering  of  ashes  too,  being  swept  from 
the  hearth,  Frances  at  last  sat  down  ;  and  then,  as  she  took 
a  chair  opposite  to  me,  she  betrayed,  for  the  first  time,  a 
little  embarrassment ;  and  no  wonder,  for  indeed  I  had 
unconsciously  watched  her  rather  too  closely,  followed  all 
her  steps  and  all  her  movements  a  little  too  perseveringly 
with  my  eyes,  for  she  mesmerized  me  by  the  grace  and 
alertness  of  her  action — by  the  deft,  cleanly,  and  even 
decorative  effect  resulting  from  each  touch  of  her  slight  and 
fine  fingers ;  and  when,  at  last,  she  subsided  to  stillness,  the 
intelligence  of  her  face  seemed  beauty  to  me,  and  I  dwelt  on 
it  accordingly.  Her  colour,  however,  rising,  rather  than 
settling  with  repose,  and  her  eyes  remaining  downcast, 
though  I  kept  waiting  for  the  lids  to  be  raised  that  I  might 
drink  a  ray  of  the  light  I  loved — a  light  where  fire  dissolved 
in  softness,  where  affection  tempered  penetration,  where, 
just  now  at  least,  pleasure  played  with  thought — this 
expectation  not  being  gratified,  I  began  at  last  to  suspect 
that  I  had  probably  myself  to  blame  for  the  disappointment ; 
I  must  cease  gazing,  and  begin  talking,  if  I  wished  to  break 
the  spell  under  which  she  now  sat  motionless ;  so  recollect- 
ing the  composing  effect  which  an  authoritative  tone  and 
manner  had  ever  been  wont  to  produce  on  her,  I  said  —  '  Get 
one  of  your  English  books,  Mademoiselle,  for  the  rain  yet 
falls  heavily,  and  will  probably  detain  me  half  an  hour 
longer.' 


180  THE  PROFESSOR 

Released,  and  set  at  ease,  up  she  rose,  got  her  book,  and 
accepted  at  once  the  chair  I  placed  for  her  at  my  side.  She 
had  selected  '  Paradise  Lost '  from  her  shelf  of  classics, 
thinking,  I  suppose,  the  religious  character  of  the  book  best 
adapted  it  to  Sunday ;  I  told  her  to  begin  at  the  beginning, 
and  while  she  read  Milton's  invocation  to  that  heavenly 
muse,  who  on  the  '  secret  top  of  Oreb  or  Sinai '  had  taught 
the  Hebrew  shepherd  how,  in  the  womb  of  chaos,  the 
conception  of  a  world  had  originated  and  ripened,  I  enjoyed, 
undisturbed,  the  treble  pleasure  of  having  her  near  me, 
hearing  the  sound  of  her  voice — a  sound  sweet  and  satisfying 
in  my  ear — and  looking,  by  intervals,  at  her  face  :  of  this 
last  privilege,  I  chiefly  availed  myself  when  I  found  fault 
with  an  intonation,  a  pause,  or  an  emphasis  ;  as  long  as  I  dog- 
matised, I  might  also  gaze,  without  exciting  too  warm  a  flush. 

'  Enough,'  said  I,  when  she  had  gone  through  some  half- 
dozen  pages  (a  work  of  time  with  her,  for  she  read  slowly 
and  paused  often  to  ask  and  receive  information) — '  enough  ; 
and  now  the  rain  is  ceasing,  and  I  must  soon  go.' 

For  indeed,  at  that  moment,  looking  towards  the  window, 
I  saw  it  all  blue  ;  the  thunder-clouds  were  broken  and 
scattered,  and  the  setting  August  sun  sent  a  gleam  like  the 
reflection  of  rubies  through  the  lattice.  I  got  up ;  I  drew  on 
my  gloves. 

'  You  have  not  yet  found  another  situation  to  supply 
the  place  of  that  from  which  you  were  dismissed  by  Mdlle. 
Reuter?' 

'  No,  Monsieur ;  I  have  made  inquiries  everywhere,  but 
they  all  ask  me  for  references ;  and  to  speak  truth,  I  do  not 
like  to  apply  to  the  directress,  because  I  consider  she  acted 
neither  justly  nor  honourably  towards  me  ;  she  used  under- 
hand means  to  set  my  pupils  against  me  and  thereby  render 
me  unhappy  while  I  held  my  place  in  her  establishment,  and 
she  eventually  deprived  me  of  it  by  a  masked  and  hypoci'itical 
manoeuvre,  pretending  that  she  was  acting  for  my  good,  but 
really  snatching  from  me  my  chief  means  of  subsistence,  at 
a  crisis  when  not  only  my  own  life,  but  that  of  another, 


THE  PROFESSOR  181 

depended  on  my  exertions :  of  her  I  will  nevermore  ask  a 
favour.' 

'  How,  then,  do  you  propose  to  get  on  ?  How  do  you  live 
now?' 

'  I  have  atill  my  lace-mending  trade ;  with  care  it  will 
keep  me  from  starvation,  and  I  doubt  not  by  dint  of  exertion 
to  get  better  employment  yet ;  it  is  only  a  fortnight  since  I 
began  to  try ;  my  courage  or  hopes  are  by  no  means  worn 
out  yet.' 

'And  if  you  get  what  you  wish,  what  then  ?  what  are  your 
ultimate  views  ? ' 

'  To  save  enough  to  cross  the  Channel :  I  always  look  to 
England  as  my  Canaan.' 

'  Well,  well — ere  long  I  shall  pay  you  another  visit ; 
good-evening  now,'  and  I  left  her  rather  abruptly;  I  had 
much  ado  to  resist  a  strong  inward  impulse,  urging  me  to 
take  a  warmer,  more  expressive  leave ;  what  so  natural  as  to 
fold  her  for  a  moment  in  a  close  embrace,  to  imprint  one 
kiss  on  her  cheek  or  forehead  ?  I  was  not  unreasonable — 
that  was  all  I  wanted ;  satisfied  on  that  point,  I  could  go 
away  content ;  and  Reason  denied  me  even  this ;  she  ordered 
me  to  turn  my  eyes  from  her  face,  and  my  steps  from  her 
apartment— to  quit  her  as  dryly  and  coldly  as  I  would  have 
quitted  old  Madame  Pelet.  I  obeyed,  but  I  swore  ran- 
corously  to  be  avenged  one  day.  '  I'll  earn  a  right  to  do  as 
I  please  in  this  matter,  or  I'll  die  in  the  contest.  I  have 
one  object  before  me  now — to  get  that  Genevese  girl  for  my 
wife  ;  and  my  wife  she  shall  be — that  is,  provided  she  has 
as  much,  or  half  as  much  regard  for  her  master  as  he  has  for 
her.  And  would  she  be  so  docile,  so  smiling,  so  happy 
under  my  instructions  if  she  had  not  ?  Would  she  sit  at  my 
side  when  I  dictate  or  correct,  with  such  a  still,  contented, 
halcyon  mien  ?  '  For  I  had  ever  remarked,  that  however  sad 
or  harassed  her  countenance  might  be  when  I  entered. a 
room,  yet  after  I  had  been  near  her,  spoken  to  her  a  few 
words,  given  her  some  directions,  uttered  perhaps  some 
reproofs,  she  would,  all  at  once,  nestle  into  a  nook  of 


182  THE  PROFESSOR 

happiness,  and  look  up  serene  and  revived.  The  reproofs 
suited  her  best  of  all :  while  I  scolded  she  would  chip  away 
with  her  penknife  at  a  pencil  or  a  pen  ;  fidgeting  a  little, 
pouting  a  little,  defending  herself  by  monosyllables,  and  when 
I  deprived  her  of  the  pen  or  pencil,  fearing  it  would  be  all  cut 
away,  and  when  I  interdicted  even  the  monosyllabic  defence, 
for  the  purpose  of  working  up  the  subdued  excitement  a 
little  higher,  she  would  at  last  raise  her  eyes  and  give  me  a 
certain  glance,  sweetened  with  gaiety,  and  pointed  with 
defiance,  which,  to  speak  truth,  thrilled  me  as  nothing  had 
ever  done,  and  made  me,  in  a  fashion  (though  happily  she 
did  not  know  it),  her  subject,  if  not  her  slave.  After  such 
little  scenes  her  spirits  would  maintain  their  flow,  often  for 
some  hours,  and,  as  I  remarked  before,  her  health  therefrom 
took  a  sustenance  and  vigour  which,  previously  to  the  event 
of  her  aunt's  death  and  her  dismissal,  had  almost  recreated 
her  whole  frame. 

It  has  taken  me  several  minutes  to  write  these  last 
sentences ;  but  I  had  thought  all  their  purport  during  the 
brief  interval  of  descending  the  stairs  from  Frances"  room. 
Just  as  I  was  opening  the  outer  door,  I  remembered 
the  twenty  francs  which  I  had  not  restored ;  I  paused : 
impossible  to  cany  them  away  with  me ;  difficult  to  force 
them  back  on  their  original  owner ;  I  had  now  seen  her  in 
her  own  humble  abode,  witnessed  the  dignity  of  her  poverty, 
the  pride  of  order,  the  fastidious  care  of  conservatism, 
obvious  in  the  arrangement  and  economy  of  her  little  home  ; 
I  was  sure  she  would  not  suffer  herself  to  be  excused  paying 
her  debts ;  I  was  certain  the  favour  of  indemnity  would  be 
accepted  from  no  hand,  perhaps  least  of  all  from  mine  :  yet 
these  four  five-franc  pieces  were  a  burden  to  my  self-respect, 
and  I  must  get  rid  of  them.  An  expedient — a  clumsy  one 
no  doubt,  but  the  best  I  could  devise — suggested  itself  to  me. 
I  darted  up  the  stairs,  knocked,  re-entered  the  room  as  if  in 
haste. 

'  Mademoiselle,  I  have  forgotten  one  of  my  gloves  ;  I  must 
have  left  it  here.' 


THE  PKOFESSOR  183 

She  instantly  rose  to  seek  it ;  as  she  turned  her  back,  I — 
being  now  at  the  hearth — noiselessly  lifted  a  little  vase,  one 
of  a  set  of  china  ornaments,  as  old-fashioned  as  the  teacups 
— slipped  the  money  under  it,  then  saying — '  Oh,  here  is  my 
glove  !  I  had  dropped  it  within  the  fender ;  good-evening, 
Mademoiselle,'  I  made  my  second  exit. 

Brief  as  my  impromptu  return  had  been,  it  had  afforded 
me  time  to  pick  up  a  heartache  ;  I  remarked  that  Frances 
had  already  removed  the  red  embers  of  her  cheerful  little  fire 
from  the  grate :  forced  to  calculate  every  item,  to  save  in 
every  detail,  she  had  instantly  on  my  departure  retrenched  a 
luxury  too  expensive  to  be  enjoyed  alone. 

'  I  am  glad  it  is  not  yet  winter,'  thought  I ;  '  but  in  two 
months  more  come  the  winds  and  rains  of  November ; 
would  to  God  that  before  then  I  could  earn  the  right,  and 
the  power,  to  shovel  coals  into  that  grate  ad  libitum  I ' 

Already  the  pavement  was  drying ;  a  balmy  and  fresh 
breeze  stirred  the  air,  purified  by  lightning ;  I  felt  the  West 
behind  me,  where  spread  a  sky  like  opal ;  azure  immingled 
with  crimson :  the  enlarged  sun,  glorious  in  Tyrian  tints, 
dipped  his  brim  already;  stepping,  as  I  was,  eastward,  I 
faced  a  vast  bank  of  clouds,  but  also  I  had  before  me  the 
arch  of  an  evening  rainbow ;  a  perfect  rainbow — high,  wride, 
vivid.  I  looked  long ;  my  eye  drank  in  the  scene,  and  I 
suppose  my  brain  must  have  absorbed  it ;  for  that  night, 
after  lying  awake  in  pleasant  fever  a  long  time,  watching  the 
silent  sheet  lightning,  which  still  played  among  the  re- 
treating clouds,  and  flashed  silvery  over  the  stars,  I  at  last 
fell  asleep ;  and  then  in  a  dream  were  reproduced  the 
setting  sun,  the  bank  of  clouds,  the  mighty  rainbow.  I 
stood,  methought,  on  a  terrace  ;  I  leaned  over  a  parapeted 
wall ;  there  was  space  below  me,  depth  I  could  not  fathom, 
but  hearing  an  endless  dash  of  waves,  I  believed  it  to  be  the 
sea  ;  sea  spread  to  the  horizon  ;  sea  of  changeful  green  and 
intense  blue  :  all  was  soft  in  the  distance  ;  all  vapour-veiled. 
A  spark  of  gold  glistened  on  the  line  between  water  and  air, 
floated  up,  approached,  enlarged,  changed ;  the  object  hung 


184  THE 

midway  between  heaven  and  earth,  under  the  arch  of  the  rain- 
bow ;  the  soft  but  dusk  clouds  diffused  behind.  It  hovered  as 
on  wings ;  pearly,  fleecy,  gleaming  air  streamed  like  raiment 
round  it ;  light,  tinted  with  carnation,  coloured  what  seemed 
face  and  limbs ;  a  large  star  shone  with  still  lustre  on  an 
angel's  forehead ;  an  upraised  arm  and  hand,  glancing  like  a 
ray,  pointed  to  the  bow  overhead,  and  a  voice  in  my  heart 
whispered — '  Hope  smiles  on  Effort ! ' 


CHAPTEE  XX 

A  COMPETENCY  was  what  I  wanted ;  a  competency  it  was 
now  my  aim  and  resolve  to  secure  ;  but  never  had  I  been 
farther  from  the  mark.  With  August  the  school-year 
(I'anne'e  scolaire)  closed,  the  examinations  concluded,  the 
prizes  were  adjudged,  the  schools  dispersed,  the  gates  of  all 
colleges,  the  doors  of  all  pensionnats  shut,  not  to  be  re- 
opened till  the  beginning  or  middle  of  October.  The  last 
day  of  August  was  at  hand,  and  what  was  my  position  ? 
Had  I  advanced  a  step  since  the  commencement  of  the  past 
quarter  ?  On  the  contrary,  I  had  receded  one.  By  re- 
nouncing my  engagement  as  English  master  in  Mdlle. 
Reuter's  establishment,  I  had  voluntarily  cut  off  201.  from 
my  yearly  income ;  I  had  diminished  my  60Z.  per  annum 
to  40/.,  and  even  that  sum  I  now  held  by  a  very  precarious 
tenure. 

It  is  some  time  since  I  made  any  reference  to  M.  Pelet. 
The  moonlight  walk  is,  I  think,  the  last  incident  recorded  in 
this  narrative  where  that  gentleman  cuts  any  conspicuous 
figure  :  the  fact  is,  since  that  event,  a  change  had  come  over 
the  spirit  of  our  intercourse.  He,  indeed,  ignorant  that  the 
still  hour,  a  cloudless  moon,  and  an  open  lattice  had 
revealed  to  me  the  secret  of  his  selfish  love  and  false  friend- 
ship, would  have  continued  smooth  and  complaisant  as  ever  ; 
but  I  grew  spiny  as  a  porcupine,  and  inflexible  as  a  black- 
thorn cudgel ;  I  never  had  a  smile  for  his  raillery,  never  a 
moment  for  his  society ;  his  invitations  to  take  coffee  with 
him  in  his  parlour  were  invariably  rejected,  and  very  stiffly 
and  sternly  rejected  too ;  his  jesting  allusions  to  the 


186  THE  PKOFESSOR 

directress  (which  he  still  continued)  were  heard  with  a  grim 
calm  very  different  from  the  petulant  pleasure  they  were 
formerly  wont  to  excite.  For  a  long  time  Pelet  bore  with 
my  frigid  demeanour  very  patiently  ;  he  even  increased  his 
attentions  ;  but  finding  that  even  a  cringing  politeness 
failed  to  thaw  or  move  me,  he  at  last  altered  too ;  in  his 
turn  he  cooled  ;  his  invitations  ceased  ;  his  countenance 
became  suspicious  and  overcast,  and  I  read,  in  the  perplexed 
yet  brooding  aspect  of  his  brow,  a  constant  examination  and 
comparison  of  premises,  and  an  anxious  endeavour  to  draw 
thence  some  explanatory  inference.  Ere  long,  I  fancy,  he 
succeeded,  for  he  was  not  without  penetration  ;  perhaps,  too, 
Mdlle.  Zoraide  might  have  aided  him  in  the  solution  of  the 
enigma ;  at  any  rate  I  soon  found  that  the  uncertainty  of 
doubt  had  vanished  from  his  manner ;  renouncing  all 
pretence  of  friendship  and  cordiality,  he  adopted  a  reserved, 
formal,  but  still  scrupulously  polite  deportment.  This  was 
the  point  to  which  I  had  wished  to  bring  him,  and  I  was  now 
again  comparatively  at  my  ease.  I  did  not,  it  is  true,  like 
my  position  in  his  house  ;  but  being  freed  from  the  annoyance 
of  false  professions  and  double-dealing,  I  could  endure  it, 
especially  as  no  heroic  sentiment  of  hatred  or  jealousy  of  the 
director  distracted  my  philosophical  soul ;  he  had  not,  I 
found,  wounded  me  in  a  very  tender  point,  the  wound  was 
so  soon  and  so  radically  healed,  leaving  only  a  sense  of  con- 
tempt for  the  treacherous  fashion  in  which  it  had  been  inflicted, 
and  a  lasting  mistrust  of  the  hand  which  I  had  detected 
attempting  to  stab  in  the  dark. 

This  state  of  things  continued  till  about  the  middle  of 
July,  and  then  there  was  a  little  change  ;  Pelet  came  homo 
one  night,  an  hour  after  his  usual  time,  in  a  state  of 
unequivocal  intoxication,  a  thing  anomalous  with  him  ;  for 
if  he  had  some  of  the  worst  faults  of  his  countrymen,  he  had 
also  one  at  least  of  their  virtues,  i.e.  sobriety.  So  drunl-, 
however,  was  he  upon  this  occasion,  that  after  having  roused 
the  whole  establishment  (except  the  pupils,  whose  dormitory, 
being  over  the  classes  in  a  building  apart  from  the  dwelling- 


THE  PROFESSOR  187 

house,  was  consequently  out  of  the  reach  of  disturbance)  by 
violently  ringing  the  hall-bell  and  ordering  lunch  to  be 
brought  in  immediately,  for  he  imagined  it  was  noon, 
whereas  the  city  bells  had  just  tolled  midnight ;  after  having 
furiously  rated  the  servants  for  their  want  of  punctuality, 
and  gone  near  to  chastise  his  poor  old  mother,  who  advised 
him  to  go  to  bed,  he  began  raving  dreadfully  about  '  le 
maudit  Anglais,  Creemsvort.'  I  had  not  yet  retired ;  some 
German  books  I  had  got  hold  of  had  kept  me  up  late  ;  I 
heard  the  uproar  below,  and  could  distinguish  the  director's 
voice  exalted  in  a  manner  as  appalling  as  it  was  unusual. 
Opening  my  door  a  little,  I  became  aware  of  a  demand  on 
his  part  for  '  Creemsvort '  to  be  brought  down  to  him  that  he 
might  cut  his  throat  on  the  hall-table  and  wash  his  honour, 
which  he  affirmed  to  be  in  a  dirty  condition,  in  infernal 
British  blood.  '  He  is  either  mad  or  drunk,'  thought  I,  '  and 
in  either  case  the  old  woman  and  the  servants  will  be  the  better 
of  a  man's  assistance,'  so  I  descended  straight  to  the  hall.  I 
found  him  staggering  about,  his  eyes  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling — 
a  pretty  sight  he  was,  a  just  medium  between  the  fool  and  the 
lunatic. 

'  Come,  M.  Pelet,'  said  I,  '  you  had  better  go  to  bed,'  and 
I  took  hold  of  his  arm.  His  excitement,  of  course,  increased 
greatly  at  sight  and  touch  of  the  individual  for  whose  blood 
he  had  been  making  application :  he  struggled  and  struck 
with  fury — but  a  drunken  man  is  no  match  for  a  sober  one ; 
and,  even  in  his  normal  state,  Pelet's  worn-out  frame  could 
not  have  stood  against  my  sound  one.  I  got  him  up-stairs, 
and,  in  process  of  time,  to  bed.  During  the  operation  he  did 
not  fail  to  utter  comminations,  which,  though  broken,  had  a 
sense  in  them  ;  while  stigmatizing  me  as  the  treacherous 
spawn  of  a  perfidious  country,  he,  in  the  same  breath, 
anathematized  Zoraide  Router  ;  he  termed  her  '  femme  sotte 
et  vicieuse,'  who,  in  a  fit  of  lewd  caprice,  had  thrown  herself 
away  on  an  unprincipled  adventurer  ;  directing  the  point  of 
the  last  appellation  by  a  furious  blow,  obliquely  aimed  at  me. 
I  left  him  in  the  act  of  bounding  elastically  out  of  the  bed 


188  THE   PROFESSOR 

into  which  I  had  tucked  him  ;  but  as  I  took  the  precaution 
of  turning  the  key  in  the  door  behind  me,  I  retired  to  my 
own  room,  assured  of  his  safe  custody  till  the  morning,  and 
free  to  draw  undisturbed  conclusions  from  the  scene  I  had 
just  witnessed. 

Now,  it  was  precisely  about  this  time  that  the  directress, 
stung  by  my  coldness,  bewitched  by  my  scorn,  and  excited 
by  the  preference  she  suspected  me  of  cherishing  for  another, 
had  fallen  into  a  snare  of  her  own  laying — was  herself  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  the  very  passion  with  which  she  wished  to 
entangle  me.  Conscious  of  the  state  of  things  in  that 
quarter,  I  gathered,  from  the  condition  in  which  I  saw  my 
employer,  that  his  ladye-love  had  betrayed  the  alienation 
of  her  affections — inclinations,  rather,  I  would  say ;  affection 
is  a  wrord  at  once  too  warm  and  too  pure  for  the  subject — 
had  let  him  see  that  the  cavity  of  her  hollow  heart,  emptied 
of  his  image,  was  now  occupied  by  that  of  his  usher.  It  was 
not  without  some  sui-prise  that  I  found  myself  obliged  to 
entertain  this  view  of  the  case  ;  Pelet,  with  his  old-established 
school,  was  so  convenient,  so  profitable  a  ma'ch — Zoraide 
was  so  calculating,  so  interested  a  woman— I  wondered 
mere  personal  preference  could,  in  her  mind,  have  prevailed 
for  a  moment  over  worldly  advantage  :  yet,  it  wTas  evident, 
from  what  Pelet  said,  that,  not  only  had  she  repulsed  him, 
but  had  even  let  slip  expressions  of  partiality  for  me.  One 
of  his  drunken  exclamations  was,  '  And  the  jade  doats  on 
your  youth,  you  raw  blockhead  !  and  talks  of  your  noble 
deportment,  as  she  calls  your  accursed  English  formality — 
and  your  pure  morals,  forsooth  !  des  mceurs  de  Caton,  a-t- 
elle  dit — sotte ! '  Hers,  I  thought,  must  be  a  curious  soul, 
where,  in  spite  of  a  strong  natural  tendency  to  estimate 
unduly  advantages  of  wealth  and  station,  the  sardonic  dis- 
dain of  a  fortuneless  subordinate  had  wrought  a  deeper 
impression  than  could  be  imprinted  by  the  most  flattering 
assiduities  of  a  prosperous  chef  d' institution.  I  smiled 
inwaidly  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  though  my  (itnviir-praprc  was 
excited  not  disagreeably  by  the  conquest,  my  better  feelings 


THE  PEOFESSOB  189 

remained  untouched.  Next  day,  when  I  saw  the  directress, 
and  when  she  made  an  excuse  to  meet  me  in  the  corridor, 
and  besought  my  notice  by  a  demeanour  and  look  subdued 
to  Helot  humility,  I  could  not  love,  I  could  scarcely  pity  her. 
To  answer  briefly  and  dryly  some  interesting  inquiry  about 
my  health — to  pass  her  by  with  a  stern  bow — was  all  I  could  ; 
her  presence  and  manner  had  then,  and  for  some  time  pre- 
viously and  consequently,  a  singular  effect  upon  me  :  they 
sealed  up  all  that  was  good,  elicited  all  that  was  noxious  in 
my  nature  ;  sometimes  they  enervated  my  senses,  but  they 
always  hardened  my  heart.  I  was  aware  of  the  detriment 
done,  and  quarrelled  with  myself  for  the  change.  I  had  ever 
hated  a  tyrant ;  and,  behold,  the  possession  of  a  slave,  self- 
given,  went  near  to  transform  me  into  what  I  abhorred  ! 
There  was  at  once  a  sort  of  low  gratification  in  receiving  this 
luscious  incense  from  an  attractive  and  still  young 
worshipper ;  and  an  irritating  sense  of  degradation  in  the 
very  experience  of  the  pleasure.  When  she  stole  about  me 
with  the  soft  step  of  a  slave,  I  felt  at  once  barbarous  and 
sensual  as  a  pasha.  I  endured  her  homage  sometimes ; 
sometimes  I  rebuked  it.  My  indifference  or  harshness  served 
equally  to  increase  the  evil  I  desired  to  check. 

'  Que  le  d6dain  lui  sied  bien ! '  I  once  overheard  her 
say  to  her  mother  :  '  il  est  beau  comme  Apollon  quand  il 
sourit  de  son  air  hautain.' 

And  the  jolly  old  dame  laughed,  and  said  she  thought  her 
daughter  was  bewitched,  for  I  had  no  point  of  a  handsome 
man  about  me,  except  being  straight  and  without  deformity. 
'  Pour  moi,'  she  continued,  '  il  me  fait  tout  1'effet  d'un  chat- 
huant,  avec  ses  besides.' 

Worthy  old  girl !  I  could  have  gone  and  kissed  her  had 
she  not  been  a  little  too  old,  too  fat,  and  too  red-faced ;  her 
sensible,  truthful  words  seemed  so  wholesome,  contrasted 
with  the  morbid  illusions  of  her  daughter. 

When  Pelet  awoke  on  the  morning  after  his  frenzy  fit, 
he  retained  no  recollection  of  what  had  happened  the  previous 
night,  and  his  mother  fortunately  had  the  discretion  to  refrain 


190  THE  PROFESSOR 

from  informing  him  that  I  had  been  a  witness  of  his  degrada- 
tion. He  did  not  again  have  recourse  to  wine  for  curing 
his  griefs,  but  even  in  his  sober  mood  he  soon  showed  that 
the  iron  of  jealousy  had  entered  into  his  soul.  A  thorough 
Frenchman,  the  national  characteristic  of  ferocity  had  not 
been  omitted  by  nature  in  compounding  the  ingredients  of 
his  character ;  it  had  appeared  first  in  his  access  of  drunken 
wrath,  when  some  of  his  demonstrations  of  hatred  to  my 
person  were  of  a  truly  fiendish  character,  and  now  it  was 
more  covertly  betrayed  by  momentary  contractions  of  the 
features,  and  ^flashes  of  fierceness  in  his  light  blue  eyes, 
when  their  glance  chanced  to  encounter  mine.  He  absolutely 
avoided  speaking  to  me  ;  I  was  now  spared  even  the  false- 
hood of  his  politeness.  In  this  state  of  our  mutual  relations, 
my  soul  rebelled,  sometimes  almost  ungovernably,  against 
living  in  the  house  and  discharging  the  service  of  such  a 
man  ;  but  who  is  free  from  the  constraint  of  circumstances  ? 
At  that  time  I  was  not :  I  used  to  rise  each  morning  eager  to 
shake  off  his  yoke,  and  go  out  with  my  portmanteau  under 
my  arm,  if  a  beggar,  at  least  a  freeman  ;  and  in  the  evening, 
when  I  came  back  from  the  pensionnat  de  demoiselles,  a 
certain  pleasant  voice  in  my  ear  ;  a  certain  face,  so  intelligent, 
yet  so  docile,  so  reflective,  yet  so  soft,  in  my  eyes ;  a  certain 
cast  of  character,  at  once  proud  and  pliant,  sensitive  and 
sagacious,  serious  and  ardent,  in  my  head  ;  a  certain  tone  of 
feeling,  fei'vid  and  modest,  refined  and  practical,  pure  and 
powerful,  delighting  and  troubling  my  memory — visions  of 
new  ties  I  longed  to  contract,  of  new  duties  I  longed  to 
undertake,  had  taken  the  rover  and  the  rebel  out  of  me,  and 
had  shown  endurance  of  my  hated  lot  in  the  light  of  a 
Spartan  virtue. 

But  Pelet's  fury  subsided  :  a  fortnight  sufficed  for  its  rise, 
progress,  and  extinction  ;  in  that  space  of  time  the  dismissal 
of  the  obnoxious  teacher  had  been  effected  in  the  neighbouring 
house,  and  in  the  same  interval  I  had  declared  my  resolution 
to  follow  and  find  out  my  pupil,  and  upon  my  application 
for  her  address  being  refused,  I  had  summarily  resigned 


THE  PROFESSOR  191 

my  own  post.  This  last  act  seemed  at  once  to  restore  Mdlle. 
Eeuter  to  her  senses ;  her  sagacity,  her  judgment,  so  long 
misled  by  a  fascinating  delusion,  struck  again  into  the  right 
track  the  moment  that  delusion  vanished.  By  the  right 
track,  I  do  not  mean  the  steep  and  difficult  path  of  principle 
— in  that  path  she  never  trod  ;  but  the  plain  highway  of 
common  sense,  from  which  she  had  of  late  widely  diverged. 
When  there  she  carefully  sought,  and  having  found, 
industriously  pursued  the  trail  of  her  old  suitor,  M.  Pelet. 
She  soon  overtook  him.  What  arts  she  employed  to  soothe 
and  blind  him  I  know  not,  but  she  succeeded  both  in  allaying 
his  wrath,  and  hoodwinking  his  discernment,  as  was  soon 
proved  by  the  alteration  in  his  mien  and  manner  ;  she  must 
have  managed  to  convince  him  that  I  neither  was,  nor  ever 
had  been,  a  rival  of  his,  for  the  fortnight  of  fury  against  me 
terminated  in  a  fit  of  exceeding  graciousness  and  amenity, 
not  unmixed  with  a  dash  of  exulting  self-complacency,  more 
ludicrous  than  irritating.  Pelet's  bachelor's  life  had  been 
passed  in  proper  French  style,  with  due  disregard  to  moral 
restraint,  and  I. thought  his  married  life  promised  to  be  very 
French  also.  He  often  boasted  to  me  what  a  terror  he  had 
been  to  certain  husbands  of  his  acquaintance  ;  I  perceived 
it  would  not  now  be  difficult  to  pay  him  back  in  his  own 
coin. 

The  crisis  drew  on.  No  sooner  had  the  holidays 
commenced  than  note  of  preparation  for  some  momentous 
event  sounded  all  through  the  premises  of  Pelet ;  painters, 
polishers,  and  upholsterers  were  immediately  set  to  work,  and 
there  was  talk  of  'la  chambre  de  Madame,'  '  le  salon  de 
Madame.'  Not  deeming  it  probable  that  the  old  duenna  at 
present  graced  with  that  title  in  our  house  had  inspired  her 
son  with  such  enthusiasm  of  filial  piety  as  to  induce  him  to 
fit  up  apartments  expressly  for  her  use,  I  concluded,  in 
common  with  the  cook,  the  two  housemaids,  and  the  kitchen- 
scullion,  that  a  new  and  more  juvenile  Madame  was  destined 
to  be  the  tenant  of  these  gay  chambers. 

Presently  official  announcement  of  the  coming  event  was 


192  THE  PROFESSOR 

put  forth.  In  another  week's  time  M.  Fran<jois  Pelet,  direc- 
teur,  and  Mdlle.  Zoraide  Renter,  directrice,  were  to  be  joined 
together  in  the  bands  of  matrimony.  Monsieur,  in  person, 
heralded  the  fact  to  me  ;  terminating  his  communication  by 
an  obliging  expression  of  his  desire  that  I  should  continue,  as 
heretofore,  his  ablest  assistant  and  most  trusted  friend  ;  and 
a  proposition  to  raise  my  salary  by  an  additional  two  hundred 
francs  per  annum.  I  thanked  him,  gave  no  conclusive  answer 
at  the  time,  and,  when  he  had  left  me,  threw  off  my  blouse, 
put  on  my  coat,  and  set  out  on  a  long  walk  outside  the  Porte 
do  Flandre,  in  order,  as  I  thought,  to  cool  my  blood,  calm 
my  nerves,  and  shake  my  disarranged  ideas  into  some  order. 
In  fact,  I  had  just  received  what  was  virtually  my  dismissal. 
I  could  not  conceal,  I  did  not  desire  to  conceal  from  myself 
the  conviction  that,  being  now  certain  that  Mdlle.  Reuter 
was  destined  to  become  Madame  Pelet,  it  would  not  do  for 
me  to  remain  a  dependent  dweller  in  the  house  which  was 
soon  to  be  hers.  Her  present  demeanour  towards  me  was 
deficient  neither  in  dignity  nor  propriety ;  but  I  knew  her 
former  feeling  was  unchanged.  Decorum  now  repressed,  and 
Policy  masked  it,  but  Opportunity  would  be  too  strong  for 
either  of  these — Temptation  would  shiver  their  restraints. 

I  was  no  pope — I  could  not  boast  infallibility :  in  short, 
if  I  stayed,  the  probability  was  that,  in  three  months'  time,  a 
practical  modern  French  novel  would  be  in  full  process  of 
concoction  under  the  roof  of  the  unsuspecting  Pelet.  Now, 
modern  French  novels  are  not  to  my  taste,  either  practically 
or  theoretically.  Limited  as  had  yet  been  my  experience  of 
life,  I  had  once  had  the  opportunity  of  contemplating,  near 
at  hand,  an  example  of  the  results  produced  by  a  course  of 
interesting  and  romantic  domestic  treachery.  No  golden  halo 
of  fiction  was  about  this  example  ;  I  saw  it  bare  and  real ;  and 
it  was  very  loathsome.  I  saw  a  mind  degraded  by  the  practice 
of  mean  subterfuge,  by  the  habit  of  perfidious  deception,  and  a 
body  depraved  by  the  infectious  influence  of  the  vice-polluted 
soul.  I  had  suffered  much  from  the  forced  and  prolonged 
view  of  this  spectacle  ;  those  sufferings  I  did  not  uow  regret, 


THE  PROFESSOR  193 

for  their  simple  recollection  acted  as  a  most  wholesome 
antidote  to  temptation.  They  had  inscribed  on  my  reason 
the  conviction  that  unlawful  pleasure,  trenching  on  another's 
rights,  is  delusive  and  envenomed  pleasure — its  hollowness 
disappoints  at  the  time,  its  poison  cruelly  tortures  afterwards, 
its  effects  deprave  for  ever. 

From  all  this  resulted  the  conclusion  that  I  must  leave 
Pelet's,  and  that  instantly ;  '  hut,'  said  Prudence,  '  you  know 
not  where  to  go,  nor  how  to  live  ; '  and  then  the  dream  of  true 
love  came  over  me :  Frances  Henri  seemed  to  stand  at  my 
side ;  her  slender  waist  to  invite  my  arm  ;  her  hand  to  court 
my  hand  ;  I  felt  it  was  made  to  nostle  in  mine  ;  I  could  not 
relinquish  my  right  to  it,  nor  could  I  withdraw  my  eyes  for 
ever  from  hers,  where  I  saw  so  much  happiness,  such  a 
correspondence  of  heart  with  heart ;  over  whose  expression 
I  had  such  influence ;  where  I  could  kindle  hliss,  infuse  awe, 
stir  deep  delight,  rouse  sparkling  spirit,  and  sometimes  waken 
pleasurable  dread.  My  hopes  to  win  and  possess,  my 
resolutions  to  work  and  rise,  rose  in  array  against  me  ;  and 
here  I  was  about  to  plunge  into  the  gulf  of  absolute 
destitution ;  '  and  all  this,"  suggested  an  inward  voice 
'  because  you  fear  an  evil  which  may  never  happen  ! '  'I 
will  happen ;  you  know  it  will,'  answered  that  stubborn 
monitor,  Conscience.  '  Do  what  you  feel  is  right ;  obey  me, 
and  even  in  the  sloughs  of  want  I  will  plant  for  you  firm 
footing.'  And  then,  as  I  walked  fast  along  the  road,  there 
rose  upon  me  a  strange,  inly-felt  idea  of  some  Great  Being, 
unseen,  but  all  present,  who  in  His  beneficence  desired  only 
rny  welfare,  and  now  watched  the  struggle  of  good  and  evil 
in  my  heart,  and  waited  to  see  whether  I  should  obey  His 
voice,  heard  in  the  whispers  of  my  conscience,  or  lend  an  ear 
to  the  sophisms  by  which  His  enemy  and  mine — the  Spirit 
of  Evil  sought  to  lead  me  astray.  Rough  and  steep  was  the 
path  indicated  by  divine  suggestion  ;  mossy  and  declining  the 
green  way  along  which  Temptation  strewed  flowers ;  but 
whereas,  methought,  the  Deity  of  IJOVB,  the  Friend  of  all  that 
exists,  would  smile  well-pleased  were  I  to  gird  up  my 


194  THE  PKOFESSOR 

loins  and  address  myself  to  the  rude  ascent ;  so,  on  the  other 
hand,  each  inclination  to  the  velvet  declivity  seemed  to 
kindle  a  gleam  of  triumph  on  the  brow  of  the  man-hating, 
God-defying  demon.  Sharp  and  short  I  turned  round ;  fast 
I  retraced  my  steps ;  in  half-an-hour  I  was  again  at  M. 
Pelet's  :  I  sought  him  in  his  study ;  brief  parley,  concise 
explanation  sufficed  ;  my  manner  proved  that  I  was  resolved  ; 
he,  perhaps,  at  heart,  approved  my  decision.  After  twenty 
minutes'  conversation,  I  re-entered  my  own  room,  self- 
deprived  of  the  means  of  living,  self-sentenced  to  leave  my 
present  home,  with  a  short  notice  of  a  week  in  which  to 
provide  another. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

DIKECTLY  as  I  closed  the  door,  I  saw  laid  on  the  table  two 
letters  ;  my  thought  was,  that  they  were  notes  of  invitation 
from  the  friends  of  some  of  my  pupils ;  I  had  received  such 
marks  of  attention  occasionally,  and  with  me,  who  had  no 
friends,  correspondence  of  more  interest  was  out  of  the 
question ;  the  postman's  arrival  had  never  yet  been  an  event 
of  interest  to  me  since  I  came  to  Brussels.  I  laid  my  hand 
carelessly  on  the  documents,  and  coldly  and  slowly  glancing 
at  them,  I  prepared  to  break  the  seals ;  my  eye  was  arrested 
and  my  hand  too  ;  I  saw  what  excited  me,  as  if  I  had  found 
a  vivid  picture  where  I  expected  only  to  discover  a  blank 
page :  on  one  cover  was  an  English  post-mark  ;  on  the  other, 
a  lady's  clear,  fine  autograph ;  the  last  I  opened  first : — 

'  MONSIEUR, — 

I  FOUND  out  what  you  had  done  the  very  morning 
after  your  visit  to  me ;  you  might  be  sure  I  should  dust  the 
china  every  day ;  and,  as  no  one  but  you  had  been  in  my 
room  for  a  week,  and  as  fairy-money  is  not  current  in 
Brussels,  I  could  not  doubt  who  left  the  twenty  francs  on 
the  chimney-piece.  I  thought  I  heard  you  stir  the  vase  when 
I  was  stooping  to  look  for  your  glove  under  the  table,  and  I 
wondered  you  should  imagine  it  had  got  into  such  a  little 
cup.  Now,  Monsieur,  the  money  is  not  mine,  and  I  shall 
not  keep  it ;  I  will  not  send  it  in  this  note  because  it  might 
be  lost — besides,  it  is  heavy  ;  but  I  will  restore  it  to  you  the 
first  time  I  see  you,  and  you  must  make  no  difficulties  about 
taking  it ;  because,  in  the  fivst  place,  I  am  sure,  Monsieur, 


196  THE  PKOFESSOft 

you  can  understand  that  one  likes  to  pay  one's  debts  ;  that 
it  is  satisfactory  to  owe  no  man  anything;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  I  can  now  very  well  afford  to  be  honest,  as  I 
am  provided  with  a  situation.  This  last  circumstance  is, 
indeed,  the  reason  of  my  writing  to  you,  for  it  is  pleasant  to 
communicate  good  news ;  and,  in  these  days,  I  have  only 
my  master  to  whom  I  can  tell  anything. 

'  A  week  ago,  Monsieur,  I  was  sent  for  by  a  Mrs. 
Wharton,  an  English  lady ;  her  eldest  daughter  was  going  to 
be  married,  and  some  rich  relation  having  made  her  a 
present  of  a  veil  and  dress  in  costly  old  lace,  as  precious, 
they  said,  almost  as  jewels,  but  a  little  damaged  by  time,  I 
was  commissioned  to  put  them  in  repair.  I  had  to  do  it  at 
the  house ;  they  gave  me,  besides,  some  embroidery  to 
complete,  and  nearly  a  week  elapsed  before  I  had  finished 
everything.  While  I  worked,  Miss  Wharton  often  came  into 
the  room  and  sat  with  me,  and  so  did  Mrs.  Wharton ;  they 
made  me  talk  English  ;  asked  how  I  had  learned  to  speak  it  so 
well ;  then  they  inquired  what  I  knew  besides — what  books 
I  had  read  ;  soon  they  seemed  to  make  a  sort  of  wonder  of  me, 
considering  me  no  doubt  as  a  learned  grisette.  One  after- 
noon, Mrs.  Wharton  brought  in  a  Parisian  lady  to  test  the 
accuracy  of  my  knowledge  of  French  ;  the  result  of  it  was 
that,  owing  probably  in  a  great  degree  to  the  mother's  and 
daughter's  good  humour  about  the  marriage,  which  inclined 
them  to  do  beneficent  deeds,  and  partly,  I  think,  because 
they  are  naturally  benevolent  people,  they  decided  that  the 
wish  I  had  expressed  to  do  something  more  than  mend  lace 
was  a  very  legitimate  one ;  and  the  same  day  they  took  me 
in  their  carriage  to  Mrs.  D.'s,  who  is  the  directress  of  the 
first  English  school  at  Brussels.  It  seems  she  happened  to 
be  in  want  of  a  French  lady  to  give  lessons  in  geography, 
history,  grammar,  and  composition,  in  the  French  language. 
Mrs.  Wharton  recommended  me  very  warmly  ;  and,  as  two 
of  her  younger  daughters  are  pupils  in  the  house,  her 
patronage  availed  to  get  me  the  place.  It  was  settled  that  I 
am  to  attend  six  hours  daily  (for,  happily,  it  was  not 


THE   PROFESSOR  197 

required  that  I  should  live  in  the  house  ;  I  should  have  heen 
sorry  to  leave  my  lodgings),  and,  for  this,  Mrs.  D.  will  give 
me  twelve  hundred  francs  per  annum. 

1  You  see,  therefore,  Monsieur,  that  I  am  now  rich ; 
richer  almost  than  I  ever  hoped  to  be :  I  feel  thankful  for  it, 
especially  as  my  sight  was  beginning  to  be  injured  by 
constant  working  at  fine  lace  ;  and  I  was  getting,  too,  very 
weary  of  sitting  up  late  at  nights,  and  yet  not  being  able 
to  find  time  for  reading  or  study.  I  began  to  fear  that  I 
should  fall  ill,  and  be  unable  to  pay  my  way ;  this  fear  is 
now,  in  a  great  measure,  removed ;  and,  in  truth,  Monsieur, 
I  am  very  grateful  to  God  for  the  relief ;  and  I  feel  it 
necessary,  almost,  to  speak  of  my  happiness  to  some  one  who 
is  kind-hearted  enough  to  derive  joy  from  seeing  others 
joyful.  I  could  not,  therefore,  resist  the  temptation  of 
writing  to  you ;  I  argued  with  myself  it  is  very  pleasant  for 
me  to  write,  and  it  will  not  be  exactly  painful,  though  it  may 
be  tiresome  to  Monsieur  to  read.  Do  not  be  too  angry 
with  my  circumlocution  and  inelegancies  of  expression,  and 
believe  me 

'  Your  attached  pupil, 

'  F.  E.  HENKI.' 

Having  read  this  letter  I  mused  on  its  contents  for  a 
few  moments — whether  with  sentiments  pleasurable  or  other- 
wise I  will  hereafter  note — and  then  took  up  the  other.  It 
was  directed  in  a  hand  to  me  unknown — small,  and 
rather  neat ;  neither  masculine  nor  exactly  feminine ;  the 
seal  bore  a  coat  of  arms,  concerning  which  I  could  only 
decipher  that  it  was  not  that  of  the  Seacornbe  family,  con- 
sequently the  epistle  could  be  from  none  of  my  almost 
forgotten,  and  certainly  quite  forgetting  patrician  relations. 
From  whom,  then,  was  it?  I  removed  the  envelope;  the 
note  folded  within  ran  as  follows  : — 

'  I  have  no  doubt  in  the  world  that  you  are  doing  well  in 
that  greasy  Flanders ;  living  probably  on  the  fat  of  the 


198  THE  PROFESSOR 

unctuous  land  ;  sitting  like  a  black-haired,  tawny-skinned, 
long-nosed  Israelite  by  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt ;  or  like  a 
rascally  son  of  Levi  near  the  brass  cauldrons  of  the 
sanctuary,  and  every  now  and  then  plunging  in  a  consecrated 
hook,  and  drawing  out  of  the  sea  of  broth  the  fattest  of 
heave-shoulders  and  the  fleshiest  of  wave-breasts.  I  know 
this,  because  you  never  write  to  any  one  in  England. 
Thankless  dog  that  you  are  !  I,  by  the  sovereign  efficacy  of 
my  recommendation,  got  you  the  place  where  you  are  now 
living  in  clover,  and  yet  not  a  word  of  gratitude  or  even 
acknowledgment  have  you  ever  offered  in  return  ;  but  I  am 
coming  to  see  you,  and  small  conception  can  you,  with  your 
addled  aristocratic  brains,  form  of  the  sort  of  moral  kicking 
I  have,  ready  packed  in  my  carpet-bag,  destined  to  be  pre- 
sented to  you  immediately  on  my  arrival. 

'  Meantime  I  know  all  about  your  affairs,  and  have  just 
got  information,  by  Brown's  last  letter,  that  you  are  said  to 
be  on  the  point  of  forming  an  advantageous  match  with  a 
pursy  little  Belgian  schoolmistress — a  Mdlle.  Zenobie,  or 
some  such  name.  Won't  I  have  a  look  at  her  when  I  come 
over  ?  And  this  you  may  rely  on :  if  she  pleases  my  taste, 
or  if  I  think  it  worth  while  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  I'll 
pounce  on  your  prize  and  bear  her  away  triumphant  in  spite 
of  your  teeth.  Yet  I  don't  like  dumpies  either,  and  Brown 
says  she  is  little  and  stout — the  better  fitted  for  a  wiry, 
starved-looking  chap  like  you. 

'  Be  on  the  look-out,  for  you  know  neither  the  day  nor 

hour  when  your (I  don't  wish  to  blaspheme,  so  I'll  leave 

a  blank) — cometh. 

'  Yours  truly, 

'  HUNSDEN  YOKKE  HuNSDEN.' 

'  Humph  ! '  said  I  ;  and  ere  I  laid  the  letter  down,  I 
again  glanced  at  the  small,  neat  handwriting,  not  a  bit  like 
that  of  a  mercantile  man,  nor,  indeed,  of  any  man  except 
Hunsden  himself.  They  talk  of  affinities  between  the 
autograph  and  the  character  :  what  affinity  was  there  here  ? 


THE  PROFESSOR  199 

I  recalled  the  writer's  peculiar  face  and  certain  traits  I  sus- 
pected, rather  than  knew,  to  appertain  to  his  nature,  and  I 
answered,  '  A  great  deal.' 

Hunsden,  then,  was  coming  to  Brussels,  and  coming  I 
knew  not  when ;  coming  charged  with  the  expectation  of 
finding  me  on  the  summit  of  pi'osperity,  about  to  be  married, 
to  step  into  a  warm  nest,  to  lie  comfortably  down,  by  the 
side  of  a  snug  well-fed  little  mate. 

'  I  wish  him  joy  of  the  fidelity  of  the  picture  he  has 
painted,'  thought  I.  '  What  will  he  say  when,  instead  of  a 
pair  of  plump  turtle-doves,  billing  and  cooing  in  a  bower  of 
roses,  he  finds  a  single  lean  cormorant,  standing  mateless 
and  shelterless  on  poverty's  bleak  cliff?  Oh,  confound  him  ! 
Let  him  come,  and  let  him  laugh  at  the  contrast  between 
rumour  and  fact.  Were  he  the  devil  himself,  instead  of 
being  merely  very  like  him,  I'd  not  condescend  to  get  out  of 
his  way,  or  to  forge  a  smile  or  a  cheerful  word  wherewith  to 
avert  his  sarcasm.' 

Then  I  recurred  to  the  other  letter :  that  struck  a  chord 
whose  sound  I  could  not  deaden  by  thrusting  my  fingers 
into  my  ears,  for  it  vibrated  within ;  and  though  its  swell 
might  be  exquisite  music,  its  cadence  was  a  groan. 

That  Frances  was  relieved  from  the  pressure  of  want, 
that  the  curse  of  excessive  labour  was  taken  off  her,  filled 
me  with  happiness ;  that  her  first  thought  in  prosperity 
should  be  to  augment  her  joy  by  sharing  it  with  me,  met 
and  satisfied  the  wish  of  my  heart.  Two  results  of  her 
letter  were  then  pleasant,  sweet  as  two  draughts  of  nectar ; 
but  applying  my  lips  for  the  third  time  to  the  cup,  and  they 
were  excoriated  as  with  vinegar  and  gall. 

Two  persons  whose  desires  are  moderate  may  live  well 
enough  in  Brussels  on  an  income  which  would  scarcely 
afford  a  respectable  maintenance  for  one  in  London  :  and 
that,  not  because  the  necessaries  of  life  are  so  much  dearer 
in  the  latter  capital,  or  taxes  so  much  higher  than  in  the 
former,  but  because  the  English  surpass  in  folly  all  the 
nations  on  God's  earth,  and  are  more  abject  slaves  to  custom, 


200  THE   PKOFESSOK 

to  opinion,  to  the  desire  to  keep  up  a  certain  appearance, 
than  the  Italians  are  to  priestcraft,  the  French  to  vainglory, 
the  Russians  to  their  Czar,  or  the  Germans  to  black  beer.  I 
have  seen  a  degree  of  sense  in  the  modest  arrangement  of 
one  homely  Belgian  household,  that  might  put  to  shame  the 
elegance,  the  superfluities,  the  luxuries,  the  strained  refine- 
ments of  a  hundred  genteel  English  mansions.  In  Belgium, 
provided  you  can  make  money,  you  may  save  it ;  this  is 
scarcely  possible  in  England  ;  ostentation  there  lavishes  in  a 
month  what  industry  has  earned  in  a  year.  More  shame  to 
all  classes  in  that  most  bountiful  and  beggarly  country  for 
their  servile  following  of  Fashion  ;  I  could  write  a  chapter 
or  two  on  this  subject,  but  must  forbear,  at  least  for  the 
present.  Had  I  retained  my  601.  per  annum,  I  could,  now  that 
Frances  was  in  possession  of  50/.,  have  gone  straight  to  her 
this  very  evening,  and  spoken  out  the  words  which,  repressed, 
kept  fretting  my  heart  with  fever ;  our  united  income  would, 
as  we  should  have  managed  it,  have  sufficed  well  for  our 
mutual  support ;  since  we  lived  in  a  country  where  economy 
was  not  confounded  with  meanness,  where  frugality  in  dress, 
food,  and  furniture,  was  not  synonymous  with  vulgarity  in 
these  various  points.  But  the  placeless  usher,  bare  of 
resource,  and  unsupported  by  connections,  must  not  think  of 
this ;  such  a  sentiment  as  love,  such  a  wrord  as  marriage, 
were  misplaced  in  his  heart,  and  on  his  lips.  Now  for  the 
first  time  did  I  truly  feel  what  it  wras  to  be  poor ;  now  did 
the  sacrifice  I  had  made  in  casting  from  me  the  means  of 
living  put  on  a  new  aspect ;  instead  of  a  correct,  just, 
honourable  act,  it  seemed  a  deed  at  once  light  and  fanatical ; 
I  took  several  turns  in  my  room,  under  the  goading  influence 
•  of  most  poignant  remorse  ;  I  walked  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
from  the  wall  to  the  window ;  and  at  the  window,  self- 
reproach  seemed  to  face  me  :  at  the  wall,  self -disdain  :  all  at 
once  out  spoke  Conscience  : — 

1  Down,  stupid  tormentors ! '  cried  she  ;  '  the  man  has 
done  his  duty  ;  you  shall  not  bait  him  thus  by  thoughts  of 
what  might  have  been  ;  he  relinquished  a  temporary  and 


THE   PROFESSOR  201 

contingent  good  to  avoid  a  permanent  and  certain  evil ;  he 
did  well.  Let  him  reflect  now,  and  when  your  blinding 
dust  and  deafening  hum  subside,  he  will  discover  a  path.' 

I  sat  down  ;  I  propped  my  forehead  on  both  my  hands  ; 
I  thought  and  thought  an  hour — two  hours ;  vainly.  I  seemed 
like  one  sealed  in  a  subterranean  vault,  who  gazes  at  utter 
blackness  ;  at  blackness  ensured  by  yard-thick  stone  walls 
around,  and  by  piles  of  building  above,  expecting  light  to 
penetrate  through  granite,  and  through  cement  firm  as  granite. 
But  there  are  chinks,  or  there  may  be  chinks,  in  the  best 
adjusted  masonry  ;  there  was  a  chink  in  my  cavernous  cell ; 
for,  eventually,  I  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  a  ray — pallid, 
indeed,  and  cold,  and  doubtful,  but  still  a  ray,  for  it  showed 
that  narrow  path  which  conscience  had  promised.  After  two, 
three  hours'  torturing  research  in  brain  and  memory,  I 
disinterred  certain  remains  of  circumstances,  and  conceived 
a  hope  that  by  putting  them  together  an  expedient  might  be 
framed,  and  a  resource  discovered.  The  circumstances  were 
briefly  these  : — 

Some  three  months  ago  M.  Pelet  had,  on  the  occasion  of 
his  fete,  given  the  boys  a  treat,  which  treat  consisted  in  a 
party  of  pleasure  to  a  certain  place  of  public  resort  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Brussels,  of  which  I  do  not  at  this  moment  remember 
the  name,  but  near  it  were  several  of  those  lakelets  called 
6tangs ;  and  there  was  one  e'tang,  larger  than  the  rest,  where 
on  holidays  people  were  accustomed  to  amuse  themselves  by 
rowing  round  it  in  little  boats.  The  boys  having  eaten  an 
unlimited  quantity  of  '  gaufres,'  and  drank  several  bottles  of 
Louvain  beer,  amid  the  shades  of  a  garden  made  and  provided 
for  such  crams,  petitioned  the  director  for  leave  to  take  a  row 
on  the  e'tang.  Half  a  dozen  of  the  eldest  succeeded  in 
obtaining  leave,  and  I  was  commissioned  to  accompany  them 
as  surveillant.  Among  the  half-dozen  happened  to  be  a 
certain  Jean  Baptiste  Vandenhuten,  a  most  ponderous  young 
Flamand,  not  tall,  but  even  now,  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen, 
possessing  a  breadth  and  depth  of  personal  development 
truly  national.  It  chanced  that  Jean  was  the  first  lad  to  step 


202  THE   PROFESSOR 

into  the  boat ;  he  stumbled,  rolled  to  one  side,  the  boat 
revolted  at  his  weight  and  capsized.  Vandenhuten  sank  like 
lead,  rose,  sank  again.  My  coat  and  waistcoat  were  off  in 
an  instant ;  I  had  not  been  brought  up  at  Eton  and  boated 
and  bathed  and  swam  there  ten  long  years  for  nothing ;  it 
was  a  natural  and  easy  act  for  me  to  leap  to  the  rescue. 
The  lads  and  the  boatman  yelled ;  they  thought  there  would 
be  two  deaths  by  drowning  instead  of  one  ;  but  as  Jean  rose 
the  third  time,  I  clutched  him  by  one  leg  and  the  collar,  and 
in  three  minutes  more  both  he  and  I  were  safe  landed.  To 
speak  heaven's  truth,  my  merit  in  the  action  was  small  indeed, 
for  I  had  run  no  risk,  and  subsequently  did  not  even  catch 
cold  from  the  wetting ;  but  when  M.  and  Madame  Vanden- 
huten, of  whom  Jean  Baptiste  was  the  sole  hope,  came  to 
hear  of  the  exploit,  they  seemed  to  think  I  had  evinced  a 
bravery  and  devotion  which  no  thanks  could  sufficiently  repay. 
Madame,  in  particular,  was  '  certain  I  must  have  dearly 
loved  their  sweet  son,  or  I  would  not  thus  have  hazarded  my 
own  life  to  save  his.'  Monsieur,  an  honest-looking,  though 
phlegmatic  man,  said  very  little,  but  he  would  not  suffer  me 
to  leave  the  room  till  I  had  promised  that  in  case  I  ever 
stood  in  need  of  help  I  would,  by  applying  to  him,  give  him 
a  chance  of  discharging  the  obligation  under  which  he 
affirmed  I  had  laid  him.  These  words,  then,  were  ray 
glimmer  of  light ;  it  was  here  I  found  my  sole  outlet :  and 
in  truth,  though  the  cold  light  roused,  it  did  not  cheer  me, 
nor  did  the  outlet  seem  such  as  I  should  like  to  pass  through. 
Right  I  had  none  to  M.  Vandenhuten's  good  offices  ;  it  was 
not  on  the  ground  of  merit  I  could  apply  to  him  ;  no,  I  must 
stand  on  that  of  necessity.  I  had  no  work  :  I  wanted  work  ; 
my  best  chance  of  obtaining  it  lay  in  securing  his  recommenda- 
tion. This  I  knew  could  be  had  by  asking  for  it :  not  to  ask, 
because  the  i%equest  revolted  my  pride  and  contradicted  my 
habits,  would,  I  felt,  be  an  indulgence  of  false  and  indolent 
fastidiousness.  I  might  repent  the  omission  all  my  life  :  I 
would  not  then  be  guilty  of  it. 

That  i-vcning  I  went  to  M.  Vandenhuten's;  but  I  had 


THE  PROFESSOR  203 

bent  the  bow  and  adjusted  the  shaft  in  vain  ;  the  string 
broke.  I  rang  the  bell  at  the  great  door  (it  was  a  large, 
handsone  house  in  an  expensive  part  of  the  town) ;  a  man- 
servant opened ;  I  asked  for  M.  Vandenhuten ;  M.  Vanden- 
huten  and  family  were  all  out  of  town — gone  to  Ostend — did 
not  know  when  they  would  be  back.  I  left  my  card,  and 
retraced  my  steps. 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

A  WEEK  is  gone ;  le  jour  dcs  noces  arrived  ;  the  marriage  was 
solemnised  at  St.  Jacques* ;  Mdlle.  Zorai'de  became  Madame 
Pelet,  n6e  Eeuter  ;  and,  in  about  an  hour  after  this  transform- 
ation, '  the  happy  pair,'  as  newspapers  phrase  it,  were  on 
their  way  to  Paris ;  where,  according  to  previous  arrange- 
ment, the  honeymoon  was  to  be  spent.  The  next  day  I 
quitted  the  pensionnat.  Myself  and  my  chattels  (some  books 
and  clothes)  were  soon  transferred  to  a  modest  lodging  I  had 
hired  in  a  street  not  far  off.  In  half  an  hour  my  clothes 
were  arranged  in  a  commode,  my  books  on  a  shelf,  and  the 
'  flitting '  was  effected.  I  should  not  have  been  unhappy 
that  day  had  not  one  pang  tortured  me— a  longing  to  go  to 
the  Eue  Notre  Dame  aux  Neiges,  resisted,  yet  irritated  by 
an  inward  resolve  to  avoid  that  street  till  such  time  as  the 
mist  of  doubt  should  clear  from  my  prospects. 

It  was  a  sweet  September  evening — very  mild,  very  still ; 
I  had  nothing  to  do  ;  at  that  hour  I  knew  Frances  would  be 
equally  released  from  occupation ;  I  thought  she  might 
possibly  be  wishing  for  her  master,  I  knew  I  wished  for  my 
pupil.  Imagination  began  with  her  low  whispers,  infusing 
into  my  soul  the  soft  tale  of  pleasures  that  might  be. 

'  You  will  find  her  reading  or  writing,'  said  she  ;  '  you  can 
take  your  seat  at  her  side  ;  you  need  not  startle  her  peace  by 
undue  excitement ;  you  need  not  embarrass  her  manner  by 
unusual  action  or  language.  Be  as  you  always  are  ;  look 
over  what  she  has  written  ;  listen  while  she  reads ;  chide 
her,  or  quietly  approve ;  you  know  the  effect  of  either 
system ;  you  know  her  smile  when  pleased,  you  know  the 


THE  PKOFESSOK  205 

play  of  her  looks  when  roused ;  you  have  the  secret  of 
awakening  what  expression  you  will,  and  you  can  choose 
amongst  that  pleasant  variety.  With  you  she  will  sit  silent 
as  long  as  it  suits  you  to  talk  alone  ;  you  can  hold  her  under 
a  potent  spell ;  intelligent  as  she  is,  eloquent  as  she  can  be, 
you  can  seal  her  lips,  and  veil  her  bright  countenance  with 
diffidence ;  yet,  you  know,  she  is  not  all  monotonous  mild- 
ness ;  you  have  seen,  with  a  sort  of  strange  pleasure,  revolt, 
scorn,  austerity,  bitterness,  lay  energetic  claim  to  a  place  in 
her  feelings  and  physiognomy ;  you  know  that  few  could 
rule  her  as  you  do ;  you  know  she  might  break,  but  never 
bend  under  the  hand  of  Tyranny  and  Injustice,  but  Eeason 
and  Affection  can  guide  her  by  a  sign.  Try  their  influence 
now.  Go — they  are  not  passions ;  you  may  handle  them 
safely.' 

'  I  will  not  go,'  was  my  answer  to  the  sweet  temptress. 
'A  man  is  master  of  himself  to  a  certain  point,  but  not 
beyond  it.  Could  I  seek  Frances  to-night,  could  I  sit  with 
her  alone  in  a  quiet  room,  and  address  her  only  in  the 
language  of  Eeason  and  Affection  ? ' 

'No,'  was  the  brief,  fervent  reply  of  that  Love  which  had 
conquered  and  now  controlled  me. 

Time  seemed  to  stagnate  ;  the  sun  would  not  go  down  ; 
my  watch  ticked,  but  I  thought  the  hands  were  paralyzed. 

1  What  a  hot  evening  ! '  I  cried,  throwing  open  the  lattice  ; 
for,  indeed,  I  had  seldom  felt  so  feverish.  Hearing  a  step 
ascending  the  common  stair,  I  wondered  whether  the 
'  locataire,'  now  mounting  to  his  apartments,  were  as 
unsettled  in  mind  and  condition  as  I  was,  or  whether  he 
lived  in  the  calm  of  certain  resources,  and  in  the  freedom  of 
unfettered  feelings.  What !  was  he  coming  in  person  to 
solve  the  problem  hardly  proposed  in  inaudible  thought  ? 
He  had  actually  knocked  at  the  door — at  my  door ;  a  smart 
prompt  rap  ;  and,  almost  before  I  could  invite  him  in,  he  was 
over  the  threshold,  and  had  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

'  And  how  are  you?  '  asked  an  indifferent,  quiet  voice,  in 
the  English  language ;  while  uiy  visitor,  without  any  sort  of 


206  THE  PBOFESSOK 

bustle  or  introduction,  put  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  his 
gloves  into  his  hat,  and  drawing  the  only  armchair  the 
room  afforded  a  little  forward,  seated  himself  tranquilly 
therein. 

'  Can't  you  speak  ?  '  he  inquired  in  a  few  moments,  in  a 
tone  whose  nonchalance  seemed  to  intimate  that  it  was  much 
the  same  thing  whether  I  answered  or  not.  The  fact  is,  I 
found  it  desirable  to  have  recourse  to  my  good  friends  '  les 
besides ' ;  not  exactly  to  ascertain  the  identity  of  my  visitor 
— for  I  already  knew  him,  confound  his  impudence  !  but  to 
see  how  he  looked — to  get  a  clear  notion  of  his  mien  and 
countenance.  I  wiped  the  glasses  very  deliberately,  and  put 
them  on  quite  as  deliberately ;  adjusting  them  so  as  not  to 
hurt  the  bridge  of  my  nose,  or  get  entangled  in  my  short 
tufts  of  dun  hair.  I  was  sitting  in  the  window-seat,  with  my 
back  to  the  light,  and  I  had  him  vis-d-vis ;  a  position  he 
would  much  rather  have  had  reversed  ;  for,  at  any  time,  he 
preferred  scrutinising  to  being  scrutinised.  Yes,  it  was  he, 
and  no  mistake,  with  his  six  feet  of  length  arranged  in  a 
sitting  attitude ;  with  his  dark  travelling  surtout  with  its 
velvet  collar,  his  grey  pantaloons,  his  black  stock,  and  his 
face,  the  most  original  one  Nature  ever  modelled,  yet  the 
least  obtrusively  so ;  not  one  feature  that  could  be  termed 
marked  or  odd,  yet  the  effect  of  the  whole  unique.  There  is 
no  use  in  attempting  to  describe  what  is  indescribable. 
Being  in  no  hurry  to  address  him,  I  sat  and  stared  at  my 
ease. 

'  Oh,  that's  your  game,  is  it  ?  '  said  he  at  last.  '  Well, 
we'll  see  which  is  soonest  tired.' 

And  he  slowly  drew  out  a  fine  cigar-case,  picked  one  to 
his  taste,  lit  it,  took  a  book  from  the  shelf  convenient  to  his 
hand,  then  leaning  back,  proceeded  to  smoke  and  read  as 
tranquilly  as  if  he  had  been  in  his  own  room,  in  Grove 

Street,  X shire,  England.  I  knew  he  was  capable  of 

continuing  in  that  attitude  till  midnight,  if  he  conceived  the 
whim,  so  I  rose,  and  taking  the  book  from  his  hand,  I  said, 
'  You  did  not  ask  for  it,  and  you  shall  not  have  it.' 


THE  PROFESSOR  207 

1  It  is  silly  and  dull,'  he  observed,  '  so  I  have  not  lost 
much  ; '  then,  the  spell  being  broken,  he  went  on  :  '  I  thought 
you  lived  at  Pelet's  ;  I  went  there  this  afternoon,  expecting 
to  be  starved  to  death  by  sitting  in  a  boarding-school 
drawing-room,  and  they  told  me  you  were  gone,  had  departed 
this  morning ;  you  had  left  your  address  behind  you,  though, 
which  I  wondered  at ;  it  was  a  more  practical  and  sensible 
precaution  than  I  should  have  imagined  you  capable  of. 
Why  did  you  leave  ?  ' 

'  Because  M.  Pelet  has  just  married  the  lady  whom  you 
and  Mr.  Brown  assigned  to  me  as  my  wife.' 

1  Oh,  indeed  !  '  replied  Hunsden,  with  a  short  laugh  ;  '  so 
you've  lost  both  your  wife  and  your  place  ? ' 

'  Precisely  so.' 

I  saw  him  give  a  quick,  covert  glance  all  round  my  room  ; 
he  marked  its  narrow  limits,  its  scanty  furniture :  in  an 
instant  he  had  comprehended  the  state  of  matters — had 
absolved  me  from  the  crime  of  prosperity.  A  curious  effect 
this  discovery  wrought  in  his  strange  mind  ;  I  am  morally 
certain  that  if  he  had  found  me  installed  in  a  handsome 
parlour,  lounging  on  a  soft  couch,  with  a  pretty,  wealthy 
wife  at  my  side,  he  would  have  hated  me ;  a  brief,  cold, 
haughty  visit  would  in  such  a  case  have  been  the  extreme 
limit  of  his  civilities,  and  never  would  he  have  come  near  me 
more,  so  long  as  the  tide  of  fortune  bore  me  smoothly  on  its 
surface  ;  but  the  painted  furniture,  the  bare  walls,  the  cheer- 
less solitude  of  my  room  relaxed  his  rigid  pride,  and  I  know 
not  what  softening  change  had  taken  place  both  in  his  voice 
and  look  ere  he  spoke  again. 

'  You  have  got  another  place  ? ' 

'No.' 

'  You  are  in  the  way  of  getting  one  ? ' 

'No.' 

'  That  is  bad  ;  have  you  applied  to  Brown  ?  ' 

'  No,  indeed.' 

'  You  had  better  ;  he  often  has  it  in  his  power  to  give 
useful  information  in  such  matters.' 


208  THE   PEOFESSOR 

'  He  served  me  once  very  well ;  I  have  no  claim  on  him, 
and  am  not  in  the  humour  to  bother  him  again.' 

'  Oh,  if  you're  bashful,  and  dread  being  intrusive,  you 
need  only  commission  me.  I  shall  see  him  to-night ;  I  can 
put  in  a  word.' 

'  I  beg  you  will  not,  Mr.  Hunsden ;  I  am  in  your  debt 
already ;  you  did  me  an  important  service  when  I  was  at 

X ;  got  me  out  of  a  den  where  I  was  dying  :  that  service 

I  have  never  repaid,  and  at  present  I  decline  positively 
adding  another  item  to  the  account.' 

'  If  the  wind  sits  that  way,  I'm  satisfied.  I  thought  my 
unexampled  generosity  in  turning  you  out  of  that  accursed 
counting-house  would  be  duly  appreciated  some  day  :  "  Cast 
your  bread  on  the  waters,  and  it  shall  be  found  after  many 
days,"  say  the  Scriptures.  Yes,  that's  right,  lad — make 
much  of  me — I'm  a  nonpareil :  there's  nothing  like  me  in  the 
common  herd.  In  the  meantime,  to  put  all  humbug  aside 
and  talk  sense  for  a  few  moments,  you  would  be  greatly  the 
better  of  a  situation,  and  what  is  more,  you  are  a  fool  if  you 
refuse  to  take  one  from  any  hand  that  offers  it.' 

'  Very  well,  Mr.  Hunsden ;  now  you  have  settled  that 
point,  talk  of  something  else.  What  news  from  X ?  ' 

'  I  have  not  settled  that  point,  or  at  least  there  is  another 

to  settle  before  we  get  to  X .  Is  this  Miss  Zenobie  ' 

('  Zora'ide,'  interposed  I) — '  well,  Zorai'de — is  she  really 
married  to  Pelet  ?  ' 

'  I  tell  you  yes — and  if  you  don't  believe  me,  go  and  ask 
the  cur6  of  St.  Jacques.' 

'  And  your  heart  is  broken  ?  ' 

'  I  am  not  aware  that  it  is ;  it  feels  all  right — beats  as 
usual.' 

1  Then  your  feelings  are  less  superfine  than  I  took  them  to 
be ;  you  must  be  a  coarse,  callous  character,  to  bear  such  a 
thwack  without  staggering  under  it.' 

'  Staggering  under  it  ?  What  the  deuce  is  there  to 
stagger  under  in  the  circumstance  of  a  Belgian  school- 
mistress marrying  a  French  schoolmaster?  The  progeny  will 


THE   PROFESSOR  209 

doubtless  be  a  strange  hybrid  race ;  but  that's  their  look  out 
— not  mine.' 

'  He  indulges  in  scurrilous  jests,  and  the  bride  was  his 
affianced  one ! ' 

'  Who  said  so  ? ' 

1  Brown.' 

1  I'll  tell  you  what,  Hunsden — Brown  is  an  old  gossip.' 

'  He  is ;  but  in  the  meantime,  if  his  gossip  be  founded  on 
less  than  fact — if  you  took  no  particular  interest  in  Miss 
Zoraide — why,  O  youthful  pedagogue !  did  you  leave  your 
place  in  consequence  of  her  becoming  Madame  Pelet  ?  ' 

'  Because — '  I  felt  my  face  grow  a  little  hot :  '  because — 
in  short,  Mr.  Hunsden,  I  decline  answering  any  more 
questions,'  and  I  plunged  my  hands  deep  in  my  breeches- 
pockets. 

Hunsden  triumphed  :  his  eyes — his  laugh  announced 
victory. 

'  What  the  deuce  are  you  laughing  at,  Mr.  Hunsden  ? 

'  At  your  exemplary  composure.  Well,  lad,  I'll  not  bore 
you ;  I  see  how  it  is  :  Zoraide  has  jilted  you — married  some 
one  richer,  as  any  sensible  woman  would  have  done  if  she 
had  had  the  chance.' 

I  made  no  reply— I  let  him  think  so,  not  feeling  inclined 
to  enter  into  an  explanation  of  the  real  state  of  things,  and 
as  little  to  forge  a  false  account ;  but  it  was  not  easy  to 
blind  Hunsden  ;  my  very  silence,  instead  of  convincing  him 
that  he  had  hit  the  truth,  seemed  to  render  him  doubtful 
about  it ;  he  went  on  : — 

'  I  suppose  the  affair  has  been  conducted  as  such  affairs 
always  are  amongst  rational  people  :  you  offered  her  your 
youth  and  your  talents — such  as  they  are — in  exchange  for  her 
position  and  money :  I  don't  suppose  you  took  appearance, 
or  what  is  called  love,  into  the  account — for  I  understand 
she  is  older  than  you,  and  Brown  says,  rather  sensible- 
looking  than  beautiful.  She,  having  then  no  chance  of 
making  a  better  bargain,  was  at  first  inclined  to  come  to 
terms  with  you,  but  Pelet — the  head  of  a  flourishing  school 


210  THE   PROFESSOK 

—stepped  in  with  a  higher  bid  ;  she  accepted,  and  he  has 
got  her  :  a  correct  transaction — perfectly  so — business-like 
and  legitimate.  And  now  we'll  talk  of  something  else.' 

'  Do,'  said  I,  very  glad  to  dismiss  the  topic,  and  especially 
glad  to  have  baffled  the  sagacity  of  my  cross-questioner — if, 
indeed,  I  had  baffled  it ;  for  though  his  words  now  led  away 
from  the  dangerous  point,  his  eyes,  keen  and  watchful, 
seemed  still  preoccupied  with  the  former  idea. 

'  You  want  to  hear  news  from  X ?  And  what  interest 

can  you  have  in  X ?  You  left  no  friends  there,  for  you 

made  none.  Nobody  ever  asks  after  you — neither  man  nor 
woman ;  and  if  I  mention  your  name  in  company,  the  men 
look  as  if  I  had  spoken  of  Prester  John ;  and  the  women 

sneer  covertly.  Our  X belles  must  have  disliked  you. 

How  did  you  excite  their  displeasure  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.  I  seldom  spoke  to  them — they  were 
nothing  to  me.  I  considered  them  only  as  something  to  be 
glanced  at  from  a  distance ;  their  dresses  and  faces  were 
often  pleasing  enough  to  the  eye  :  but  I  could  not  under- 
stand their  conversation,  nor  even  read  their  countenances. 
When  I  caught  snatches  of  what  they  said,  I  could  never 
make  much  of  it ;  and  the  play  of  their  lips  and  eyes  did  not 
help  me  at  all.' 

'  That  was  your  fault,  not  theirs.  There  are  sensible,  aa 

well  as  handsome  women  in  X ;  women  it  is  worth  any 

man's  while  to  talk  to,  and  with  whom  I  can  talk  with 
pleasure  :  but  you  had  and  have  no  pleasant  address ;  there 
is  nothing  in  you  to  induce  a  woman  to  be  affable.  I  have 
remarked  you  sitting  near  the  door  in  a  room  full  of  company, 
bent  on  healing,  not  on  speaking ;  on  observing,  not  on 
entertaining  ;  looking  frigidly  shy  at  the  commencement  of  a 
party,  confusingly  vigilant  about  the  middle,  and  insultingly 
weary  towards  the  end.  Is  that  the  way,  do  you  think,  ever 
to  communicate  pleasure  or  excite  interest  ?  No ;  and  if 
you  are  generally  unpopular,  it  is  because  you  deserve  to, 
be  so.' 

'  Content ! '  I  ejaculated. 


THE  PEOFESSOR  211 

'  No,  you  are  not  content ;  you  see  beauty  always  turning 
its  back  on  you  :  you  are  mortified,  and  then  you  sneer.  I 
verily  believe  all  that  is  desirable  on  earth — wealth,  reputa- 
tion, love — will  for  ever  to  you  be  the  ripe  grapes  on  the 
high  trellis :  you'll  look  up  at  them  ;  they  will  tantalise  in 
you  the  lust  of  the  eye ;  but  they  are  out  of  reach  :  you  have 
not  the  address  to  fetch  a  ladder,  and  you'll  go  away  calling 
them  sour.' 

Cutting  as  these  words  might  have  been  under  some 
circumstances,  they  drew  no  blood  now.  My  life  was 

changed ;  my  experience  had  been  varied  since  I  left  X , 

but  Hunsden  could  not  know  this ;  he  had  seen  me  only  in 
the  character  of  Mr.  Crimsworth's  clerk — a  dependent 
amongst  wealthy  strangers,  meeting  disdain  with  a  hard 
front,  conscious  of  an  unsocial  and  unattractive  exterior, 
refusing  to  sue  for  notice  which  I  was  sure  would  be  with- 
held, declining  to  evince  an  admiration  which  I  knew  would 
be  scorned  as  worthless.  He  could  not  be  aware  that  since 
then  youth  and  loveliness  had  been  to  me  everyday  objects ; 
that  I  had  studied  them  at  leisure  and  closely,  and  had  seen 
the  plain  texture  of  truth  under  the  embroidery  of  appear- 
ance ;  nor  could  he,  keen-sighted  as  he  was,  penetrate  into 
my  heart,  search  my  brain,  and  read  my  peculiar  sympathies 
and  antipathies ;  he  had  not  known  me  long  enough,  or  well 
enough,  to  perceive  how  low  my  feelings  would  ebb  under 
some  influences,  powerful  over  most  minds ;  how  high,  how  fast 
they  would  flow  under  other  influences,  that  perhaps  acted 
with  the  more  intense  force  on  me  because  they  acted  on  me 
alone.  Neither  could  he  suspect  for  an  instant  the  history 
of  my  communications  with  Mdlle.  Reuter ;  secret  to  him 
and  to  all  others  was  the  tale  of  her  strange  infatuation ;  her 
blandishments,  her  wiles  had  been  seen  but  by  me,  and  to 
me  only  were  they  known ;  but  they  had  changed  me,  for 
they  had  proved  that  I  could  impress.  A  sweeter  secret 
nestled  deeper  in  my  heart ;  one  full  of  tenderness  and  as 
full  of  strength  :  it  took  the  sting  out  of  Hunsden's  sarcasm  ; 
it  kept  me  unbent  by  shame,  and  unstirred  by  wrath.  But 


212  '  THE  PROFESSOR 

of  all  this  I  could  say  nothing — nothing  decisive  at  least ; 
uncertainty  sealed  my  lips,  and  during  the  interval  of  silence 
by  which  alone  I  replied  to  Mr.  Hunsden,  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  be  for  the  present  wholly  misjudged  by  him,  and  misjudged 
I  was ;  he  thought  he  had  been  rather  too  hard  upon  me, 
and  that  I  was  crushed  by  the  weight  of  his  upbraidings  ;  so 
to  re-assure  me  he  said,  doubtless  I  should  mend  some  day  ; 
I  was  only  at  the  beginning  of  life  yet ;  and  since  happily  I 
was  not  quite  without  sense,  every  false  step  I  made  would 
be  a  good  lesson. 

Just  then  I  turned  my  face  a  little  to  the  light;  the 
approach  of  twilight,  and  my  position  in  the  window-seat 
had,  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  prevented  him  from  studying 
my  countenance ;  as  I  moved,  however,  he  caught  an  ex- 
pi-ession  which  he  thus  interpreted  : — 

1  Confound  it !  How  doggedly  self-approving  the  lad 
looks !  I  thought  he  was  fit  to  die  with  shame,  and  there  he 
sits,  grinning  smiles,  as  good  as  to  say,  "  Let  the  world  wag 
as  it  will,  I've  the  philosopher's  stone  in  my  waistcoat  pocket, 
and  the  elixir  of  life  in  my  cupboard ;  I'm  independent  of 
both  Fate  and  Fortune  !  " 

'  Hunsden — you  spoke  of  grapes ;  I  was  thinking  of  a 

fruit  I  like  better  than  your  X hot-house  grapes — an 

unique  fruit  growing  wild,  which  I  have  marked  as  my  own, 
and  hope  one  day  to  gather  and  taste.  It  is  of  no  use  your 
offering  me  the  draught  of  bitterness,  or  threatening  me  with 
death  by  thirst :  I  have  the  anticipation  of  sweetness  on  my 
palate ;  the  hope  of  freshness  on  my  lips  ;  I  can  reject  the 
unsavoury,  and  endure  the  exhausting.' 

'  For  how  long  ?  ' 

'  Till  the  next  opportunity  for  effort ;  and  as  the  prize  of 
success  will  be  a  treasure  after  my  own  heart,  I'll  bring  a 
bull's  strength  to  the  struggle.' 

1  Bad  luck  crushes  bulls  as  easily  as  bullaces  ;  and,  I 
believe,  the  fury  dogs  you  :  you  were  born  with  a  wooden 
spoon  in  your  mouth,  depend  on  it.' 

'  I  believe  you ;  and  I  mean  to  make  my  wooden  spoon 


THE   PROFESSOR  213 

do  the  work  of  some  people's  silver  ladles  :  grasped  firmly, 
and  handled  nimbly,  even  a  wooden  spoon  will  shovel  up 
broth.' 

Hunsden  rose  :  '  I  see,'  said  he  ;  '  I  suppose  you're  one 
of  those  who  develop  best  unwatched,  and  act  best  unaided 
— work  your  own  way.  Now  I'll  go.'  And  without  another 
word,  he  was  going ;  at  the  door  he  turned  : — 

'  Crimsworth  Hall  is  sold,'  said  he. 

'  Sold  ! '  was  my  echo. 

'  Yes  ;  you  know,  of  course,  that  your  brother  failed  three 
months  ago  ?  ' 

'  What !  Edward  Crimsworth  ?  ' 

1  Precisely ;  and  his  wife  went  home  to  her  father's ;  when 
affairs  went  awry,  his  temper  sympathised  with  them;  he 
used  her  ill :  I  told  you  he  would  be  a  tyrant  to  her  some  day  ; 
as  to  him ' 

'  Ay,  as  to  him — what  is  become  of  him  ? ' 

'  Nothing  extraordinary — don't  be  alarmed  ;  he  put  him- 
self under  the  protection  of  the  court,  compounded  with 
his  creditors — tenpence  in  the  pound  ;  in  six  weeks  set  up 
again,  coaxed  back  his  wife,  and  is  flourishing  like  a  green 
bay-tree.' 

'  And  Crimsworth  Hall — was  the  furniture  sold  too  ? ' 

'  Everything — from  the  grand  piano  down  to  the  rolling- 
pin.' 

'  And  the  contents  of  the  oak  dining-room — were  they 
sold  ? ' 

'  Of  course  ;  why  should  the  sofas  and  chairs  of  that  room 
be  held  more  sacred  than  those  of  any  other  ? ' 

'  And  the  pictures  ?  ' 

'  What  pictures  ?  Crimsworth  had  no  special  collection 
that  I  know  of — he  did  not  profess  to  be  an  amateur.' 

'  There  were  two  portraits,  one  on  each  side  the 
mantelpiece  ;  you  cannot  have  forgotten  them,  Mr. 
Hunsden  ;  you  once  noticed  that  of  the  lady — 

'  Oh,  I  know  !  the  thin-faced  gentlewoman  with  a  shawl 
put  on  like  drapery. — Why,  as  a  matter  of  course,  it  would 


214  THE  PROFESSOR 

be  sold  among  the  other  things.  If  you  had  been  rich,  you 
might,  have  bought  it,  for  I  remember  you  said  it  represented 
your  mother  :  you  see  what  it  is  to  be  without  a  sou.' 

I  did.  '  But  surely,'  I  thought  to  myself,  '  I  shall  not 
always  be  so  poverty-stricken  ;  I  may  one  day  buy  it  back 
yet.' — '  Who  purchased  it,  do  you  know  ? '  I  asked. 

'  How  is  it  likely  ?  I  never  inquired  who  purchased  any- 
thing ;  there  spoke  the  unpractical  man — to  imagine  all  the 
world  is  interested  in  what  interests  himself !  Now,  good- 
night— I'm  off  for  Germany  to-morrow  morning ;  I  shall  be 
back  here  in  six  weeks,  and  possibly  I  may  call  and  see  you 
again  ;  I  wonder  whether  you'll  be  still  out  of  place  ! '  he 
laughed,  as  mockingly,  as  heartlessly  as  Mephistopheles,  and 
so  laughing,  vanished. 

Some  people,  however  indifferent  they  may  become  after 
a  considerable  space  of  absence,  always  contrive  to  leave  a 
pleasant  impression  just  at  parting ;  not  so  Hunsden ;  a 
conference  with  him  affected  one  like  a  draught  of  Peruvian 
bark ;  it  seemed  a  concentration  of  the  specially  harsh, 
stringent,  bitter ;  whether,  like  bark,  it  invigorated,  I  scarcely 
knew. 

A  ruffled  mind  makes  a  restless  pillow ;  I  slept  little  on 
the  night  after  this  interview ;  towards  morning  I  began  to 
doze,  but  hardly  had  my  slumber  become  sleep,  when  I  was 
aroused  from  it  by  hearing  a  noise  in  my  sitting-room,  to 
which  my  bed-room  adjoined — a  step,  and  a  shoving  of 
furniture  ;  the  movement  lasted  barely  two  minutes  ;  with 
the  closing  of  the  door  it  ceased.  I  listened ;  not  a  mouse 
stirred ;  perhaps  I  had  dreamt  it,  perhaps  a  locataire  had 
made  a  mistake,  and  entered  my  apartment  instead  of  his 
own.  It  was  yet  but  five  o'clock  ;  neither  I  nor  the  day  were 
wide  awake  ;  I  turned,  and  was  soon  unconscious.  When  I 
did  rise,  about  two  hours  later,  I  had  forgotten  the  circum- 
stance ;  the  first  thing  I  saw,  however,  on  quitting  my 
chamber,  recalled  it ;  just  pushed  in  at  the  door  of  my 
sitting-room,  and  still  standing  on  end,  was  a  wooden  pack- 
ing-case— a  rough  deal  affair,  wide  but  shallow  ;  a  porter  had 


THE  PROFESSOR  215 

doubtless  shoved  it  forward,  but  seeing  no  occupant  of  the 
room,  had  left  it  at  the  entrance. 

'  That  is  none  of  mine,'  thought  I,  approaching ;  '  it  must 
be  meant  for  somebody  else.'  I  stooped  to  examine  the 
address  : — 

'  Wm.  Crimsworth,  Esq.,  No  — ,  —  -  St.,  Brussels.' 
I  was  puzzled,  but  concluding  that  the  best  way  to  obtain 
information  was  to  ask  within,  I  cut  the  cords  and  opened 
the  case.  Green  baize  enveloped  its  contents,  sewn  carefully 
at  the  sides  ;  I  ripped  the  packthread  with  my  penknife,  and 
still  as  the  seam  gave  way  glimpses  of  gilding  appeared 
through  the  widening  interstices.  Boards  and  baize  being  at 
length  removed,  I  lifted  from  the  case  a  large  picture,  in  a 
magnificent  frame  ;  leaning  it  against  a  chair,  in  a 
position  where  the  light  from  the  window  fell  favourably 
upon  it,  I  stepped  back — already  I  had  mounted  my  spec- 
tacles. A  portrait-painter's  sky  (the  most  sombre  and 
threatening  of  welkins),  and  distant  trees  of  a  conventional 
depth  of  hue,  raised  in  full  relief  a  pale,  pensive-looking 
female  face,  shadowed  with  soft  dark  hair,  almost  blending 
with  the  equally  dark  clouds ;  large,  solemn  eyes  looked 
reflectively  into  mine ;  a  thin  cheek  rested  on  a  delicate  little 
hand  ;  a  shawl,  artistically  draped,  half  hid,  half  showed  a 
slight  figure.  A  listener  (had  there  been  one)  might  have 
heard  me,  after  ten  minutes'  silent  gazing,  utter  the  word 
'  Mother  !  '  I  might  have  said  more — but  with  me  the  first 
word  uttered  aloud  in  soliloquy  rouses  consciousness  ;  it 
reminds  me  that  only  crazy  people  talk  to  themselves,  and 
then  I  think  out  my  monologue,  instead  of  speaking  it.  I 
had  thought  a  long  while,  and  a  long  while  had  contem- 
plated the  intelligence,  the  sweetness,  and — alas  !  the  sad- 
ness also  of  those  fine  grey  eyes,  the  mental  power  of  that 
forehead,  and  the  rare  sensibility  of  that  serious  mouth, 
when  my  glance,  travelling  downwards,  fell  on  a  narrow 
billet,  stuck  in  the  corner  of  the  pictui'e,  between  the  frame 
and  the  canvas.  Then  I  first  asked,  '  Who  sent  this 
picture  ?  Who  thought  of  me,  saved  it  out  of  the  wreck 


216  THE  PROFESSOR 

of  Crimsworth  Hall,  and  now  commits  it  to  the  care  of  its 
natural  keeper  ? '  I  took  the  note  from  its  niche ;  thus  it 
spoke :— 

'  There  is  a  sort  of  stupid  pleasure  in  giving  a  child 
sweets,  a  fool  his  bells,  a  dog  a  bone.  You  are  repaid  by 
seeing  the  child  besmear  his  face  with  sugar  ;  by  witnessing 
how  the  fool's  ecstasy  makes  a  greater  fool  of  him  than 
ever  ;  by  watching  the  dog's  nature  come  out  over  his  bone. 
In  giving  William  Crimsworth  his  mother's  picture,  I  give 
him  sweets,  bells,  and  bone  all  in  one  ;  what  grieves  me  is, 
that  I  cannot  behold  the  result ;  I  would  have  added  five 
shillings  more  to  my  bid  if  the  auctioneer  could  only  have 
promised  me  that  pleasure.  '  H.  Y.  H. 

'P.S. — You  said  last  night  you  positively  declined  adding 
another  item  to  your  account  with  me  ;  don't  you  think  I've 
saved  you  that  trouble  ?  ' 

I  muffled  the  picture  in  its  green  baize  covering,  restored 
it  to  the  case,  and  having  transported  the  whole  concern  to 
my  bedroom,  put  it  out  of  sight  under  my  bed.  My  pleasure 
was  now  poisoned  by  pungent  pain  ;  I  determined  to  look 
no  more  till  I  could  look  at  my  ease.  If  Hunsden  had  come 
in  at  that  moment,  I  should  have  said  to  him,  '  I  owe  you 
nothing,  Hunsden — not  a  fraction  of  a  farthing :  you  have 
paid  yourself  in  taunts.' 

Too  anxious  to  remain  any  longer  quiescent,  I  had  no 
sooner  breakfasted  than  I  repaired  once  more  to  M.  Vanden- 
huten's,  scarcely  hoping  to  find  him  at  home  ;  for  a  week 
had  barely  elapsed  since  my  first  call  :  but  fancying  I  might 
be  able  to  glean  information  as  to  the  time  when  his  return 
was  expected.  A  better  result  awaited  me  than  I  had  antici- 
pated, for  though  the  family  were  yet  at  Ostend,  M. 
Vandenhuten  had  come  over  to  Brussels  on  business  for  the 
day.  He  received  me  with  the  quiet  kindness  of  a  sincere 
though  not  excitable  man.  I  had  not  sat  five  minutes  alone 
with  him  in  his  bureau,  before  I  became  aware  of  a  sense  of 


E  PROFESSOR  Sl7 

ease  in  his  presence,  such  as  I  rarely  experienced  with 
strangers.  I  was  surprised  at  my  own  composure,  for, 
after  all,  I  had  come  on  husiness  to  me  exceedingly  painful—- 
that of  soliciting  a  favour.  I  asked  on  what  basis  the  calm 
rested — I  feared  it  might  be  deceptive.  Ere  long  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  ground,  and  at  once  I  felt  assured  of  its 
solidity ;  I  knew  where  I  was. 

M.  Vandenhuten  was  rich,  respected,  and  influential ;  I, 
poor,  despised,  and  powerless ;  so  we  stood  to  the  world  at 
large  as  members  of  the  world's  society ;  but  to  each  other, 
as  a  pair  of  human  beings,  our  positions  were  reversed. 
The  Dutchman  (he  was  not  Flamand,  but  pure  Hollandais) 
was  slow,  cool,  of  rather  dense  intelligence,  though  sound 
and  accurate  judgment ;  the  Englishman  far  more  nervous, 
active,  quicker  both  to  plan  and  to  practise,  to  conceive  and 
to  realise.  The  Dutchman  was  benevolent,  the  Englishman 
susceptible ;  in  short,  our  characters  dovetailed,  but  my 
mind  having  more  fire  and  action  than  his  instinctively 
assumed  and  kept  the  predominance. 

This  point  settled,  and  my  position  well  ascertained,  I 
addressed  him  on  the  subject  of  my  affairs  with  that 
genuine  frankness  which  full  confidence  can  alone  inspire. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  him  to  be  so  appealed  to  ;  he  thanked 
me  for  giving  him  this  opportunity  of  using  a  little  exertion 
in  my  behalf.  I  went  on  to  explain  to  him  that  my  wish 
was  not  so  much  to  be  helped,  as  to  be  put  into  the  way  of 
helping  myself ;  of  him  I  did  not  want  exertion — that  was  to 
be  my  part — but  only  information  and  recommendation. 
Soon  after  I  rose  to  go.  He  held  out  his  hand  at  parting — 
an  action  of  greater  significance  with  foreigners  than  with 
Englishmen.  As  I  exchanged  a  smile  with  him,  I  thought 
the  benevolence  of  his  truthful  face  was  better  than  the 
intelligence  of  my  own.  Characters  of  my  order  experience 
a  balm-like  solace  in  the  contact  of  such  souls  as  animated 
the  honest  breast  of  Victor  Vandenhuten. 

The  next  fortnight  was  a  period  of  many  alternations  ; 
my  existence  during  its  lapse  resembled  a  sky  of  one  of  those 


218  THE  P&OFESSOK 

autumnal  nights  which  are  specially  haunted  by  meteors  and 
falling  stars.  Hopes  and  fears,  expectations  and  disappoint- 
ments, descended  in  glancing  showers  from  zenith  to 
horizon ;  but  all  were  transient,  and  darkness  followed  swift 
each  vanishing  apparition.  M.  Vandenhuten  aided  me 
faithfully ;  he  set  me  on  the  track  of  several  places,  and 
himself  made  efforts  to  secure  them  for  me  ;  but  for  a  long 
time  solicitation  and  recommendation  were  vain — the  door 
either  shut  in  my  face  when  I  was  about  to  walk  in,  or 
another  candidate,  entering  before  me,  rendered  my  further 
advance  useless.  Feverish  and  roused,  no  disappointment 
arrested  me ;  defeat  following  fast  on  defeat  served  as 
stimulants  to  will.  I  forgot  fastidiousness,  conquered 
reserve,  thrust  pride  from  me  :  I  asked,  I  persevered,  I  re- 
monstrated, I  dunned.  It  is  so  that  openings  are  forced  into 
the  guarded  circle  where  Fortune  sits  dealing  favours  round. 
My  perseverance  made  me  known ;  my  importunity  made 
me  remarked.  I  was  inquired  about ;  my  former  pupils' 
parents,  gathering  the  reports  of  their  children,  heard  me 
spoken  of  as  talented,  and  they  echoed  the  word  :  the  sound, 
bandied  about  at  random,  came  at  last  to  ears  which,  but  for 
its  universality,  it  might  never  have  reached ;  and  at  the 
very  crisis  when  I  had  tried  my  last  effort  and  knew  not 
what  to  do,  Fortune  looked  in  at  me  one  morning,  as  I 
sat  in  drear  and  almost  desperate  deliberation  on  my 
bedstead,  nodded  with  the  familiarity  of  an  old  acquaint- 
ance—though God  knows  I  had  never  met  her  before — and 
threw  a  prize  into  my  lap. 

In  the  second  week  of  October,  18 — ,  I  got  the  appoint- 
ment of  English  professor  to  all  the  classes  of  —  —  College, 
Brussels,  with  a  salary  of  three  thousand  francs  per  annum ; 
and  the  certainty  of  being  able,  by  dint  of  the  reputation  and 
publicity  accompanying  the  position,  to  make  as  much  more 
by  private  lessons.  The  official  notice,  which  communicated 
this  information,  mentioned  also  that  it  was  the  strong 
recommendation  of  M.  Vandenhuten,  n^gociant,  which  had 
turned  the  scale  of  choice  in  my  favour. 


THE  PEOPESSOR  219 

No  sooner  had  I  read  the  announcement  than  I  hurried 
to  M.  Vandenhuten's  bureau,  pushed  the  document  under 
his  nose,  and  when  he  had  perused  it,  took  both  his  hands, 
and  thanked  him  with  unrestrained  vivacity.  My  vivid 
words  and  emphatic  gesture  moved  his  Dutch  calm  to 
unwonted  sensation.  He  said  he  was  happy— glad  to  have 
served  me ;  but  he  had  done  nothing  meriting  such  thanks. 
He  had  not  laid  out  a  centime — only  scratched  a  few  words 
on  a  sheet  of  paper. 

Again  I  repeated  to  him — 'You  have  made  me  quite 
happy,  and  in  a  way  that  suits  me ;  I  do  not  feel  an  obliga- 
tion irksome,  conferred  by  your  kind  hand  ;  I  do  not  feel 
disposed  to  shun  you  because  you  have  done  me  a  favour ; 
from  this  day  you  must  consent  to  admit  me  to  your 
intimate  acquaintance,  for  I  shall  hereafter  recur  again  and 
again  to  the  pleasure  of  your  society.' 

'  Ainsi  soit-il,'  was  the  reply,  accompanied  by  a  smile  of 
benignant  content.  I  went  away  with  its  sunshine  in  my 
heart. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

IT  was  two  o'clock  when  I  returned  to  my  lodgings ;  my 
dinner,  just  brought  in  from  a  neighbouring  hotel,  smoked 
on  the  table  ;  I  sat  down,  thinking  to  eat — had  the  plate  been 
heaped  with  potsherds  and  broken  glass,  instead  of  boiled 
beef  and  haricots,  I  could  not  have  made  a  more  signal 
failure  :  appetite  had  forsaken  me.  Impatient  of  seeing  food 
which  I  could  not  taste,  I  put  it  all  aside  into  a  cupboard, 
and  then  demanded,  '  What  shall  I  do  till  evening  ? '  for 
before  six  P.M.  it  would  be  vain  to  seek  the  Rue  Notre  Dame 
aux  Neiges  ;  its  inhabitant  (for  me  it  had  bu  one  was 
detained  by  her  vocation  elsewhere.  I  walked  in  the  streets 
of  Brussels,  and  I  walked  in  my  own  room  from  two  o'clock 
till  six  ;  never  once  in  that  space  of  time  did  I  sit  down.  I 
was  in  my  chamber  when  the  last-named  hour  struck  ;  I  had 
just  bathed  my  face  and  feverish  hands,  and  was  standing 
near  the  glass  ;  my  cheek  was  crimson,  my  eye  was  flame, 
still  all  my  features  looked  quite  settled  and  calm. 
Descending  swiftly  the  stair  and  stepping  out,  I  was  glad  to 
see  Twilight  drawing  on  in  clouds  ;  such  shade  was  to  me 
like  a  grateful  screen,  and  the  chill  of  latter  Autumn, 
breathing  in  a  fitful  wind  from  the  north-west,  met  me  as  a 
refreshing  coolness.  Still  I  saw  it  was  cold  to  others,  for 
the  women  I  passed  were  wrapped  in  shawls,  and  the  men 
had  their  coats  buttoned  close. 

When  are  we  quite  happy  ?  Was  I  so  then  ?  No ;  an 
urgent  and  growing  dread  worried  my  nerves,  and  had 
worried  them  since  the  first  moment  good  tidings  had 


THE   PROFESSOR  221 

reached  me.  How  was  Frances  ?  It  was  ten  weeks  since  I 
had  seen  her,  six  since  I  had  heard  from  her,  or  of  her.  I 
had  answered  her  letter  by  a  brief  note,  friendly  but  calm, 
in  which  no  mention  of  continued  correspondence  or  further 
visits  was  made.  At  that  hour  my  bark  hung  on  the  top- 
most curl  of  a  wave  of  fate,  and  I  knew  not  on  what  shoal 
the  onward  rush  of  the  billow  might  hurl  it ;  I  would  not 
then  attach  her  destiny  to  mine  by  the  slightest  thread  ;  if 
doomed  to  split  on  the  rock,  or  run  aground  on  the  sand- 
bank, I  was  resolved  no  other  vessel  should  share  my 
disaster  :  but  six  weeks  was  a  long  time ;  and  could  it  be 
that  she  was  still  well  and  doing  well  ?  Were  not  all  sages 
agreed  in  declaring  that  happiness  finds  no  climax  on  earth  ? 
Dared  I  think  that  but  half  a  street  now  divided  me  from  the 
full  cup  of  contentment — the  draught  drawn  from  waters 
said  to  flow  only  in  heaven  ? 

I  was  at  the  door ;  I  entered  the  quiet  house  ;  I  mounted 
the  stairs ;  the  lobby  was  void  and  still,  all  the  doors  closed ; 
I  looked  for  the  neat  green  mat ;  it  lay  duly  in  its  place. 

'  Signal  of  hope  ;  '  I  said,  and  advanced.  '  But  I  will  be 
a  little  calmer;  I  am  not  going  to  rush  in,  and  get  up  a 
scene  directly.'  Forcibly  staying  my  eager  step,  I  paused  on 
the  mat. 

1  What  an  absolute  hush  !  Is  she  in  ?  Is  anybody  in  ?  ' 
I  demanded  to  myself.  A  little  tinkle,  as  of  cinders  falling 
from  a  grate,  replied  ;  a  movement — a  fire  was  gently  stirred  ; 
and  the  slight  rustle  of  life  continuing,  a  step  paced  equably 
backwards  and  forwards,  backwards  and  forwards,  in  the 
apartment.  Fascinated,  I  stood,  more  fixedly  fascinated  when 
a  voice  rewarded  the  attention  of  my  strained  ear — so  low,  so 
self -addressed,  I  never  fancied  the  speaker  otherwise  than 
alone  ;  solitude  might  speak  thus  in  a  desert,  or  in  the  hall 
of  a  forsaken  house  : — 

1  And  ne'er  but  once,  my  son,'  he  said, 

'  Was  yon  dark  cavern  trod  ; 
In  persecution's  iron  days, 

When  the  land  was  left  by  God. 


222  THE   PROFESSOR 

From  Bewley's  bog  with  slaughter  red, 

A  wanderer  hither  drew  ; 
And  oft  he  stopp'd  and  turn'd  his  head, 

As  by  fits  the  night-winds  blew. 
For  trampling  round  by  Cheviot-edge 

Were  heard  the  troopers  keen  ; 
And  frequent  from  the  Whitelaw  ridge 

The  death-shot  flash 'd  between,'  drc.  &c. 

The  old  Scotch  ballad  was  partly  recited,  then  dropt ;  a 
pause  ensued  ;  then  another  strain  followed  in  French,  of 
which  the  purport,  translated,  ran  as  follows : — 

I  gave,  at  first,  attention  close ; 

Then  interest  warm  ensued  ; 
From  interest,  as  improvement  rose, 

Succeeded  gratitude. 

Obedience  was  no  effort  soon, 

And  labour  was  no  pain  ; 
If  tired,  a  word,  a  glance  alone 

Would  give  me  strength  again. 

From  others  of  the  studious  band, 

Ere  long  he  singled  me ; 
But  only  by  more  close  demand, 

And  sterner  urgency. 

The  task  he  from  another  took, 

From  me  he  did  reject ; 
He  would  no  slight  omission  brook, 

And  suffer  no  defect. 

If  my  companions  went  astray, 

He  scarce  their  wanderings  blam'd ; 
If  I  but  falter'd  in  the  way, 

His  anger  fiercely  flam'd. 

Something  stirred  in  an  adjoining  chamber ;  it  would  not 
do  to  be  surprised  eavesdropping ;  I  tapped  hastily,  and  as 
hastily  entered.  Frances  was  just  before  me  ;  she  had  been 
walking  slowly  in  her  room,  and  her  step  was  checked 
by  my  advent :  Twilight  only  was  with  her,  and  tranquil, 
ruddv  Firelight ;  to  these  sisters,  the  Bright  and  the  Dark, 


THE  PROFESSOR  223 

she  had  been  speaking,  ere  I  entered,  in  poetry.  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  voice,  to  her  a  foreign,  far-off  sound,  a  mountain  echo, 
had  uttered  itself  in  the  first  stanzas ;  the  second,  I  thought, 
from  the  style  and  the  substance,  was  the  language  of  her 
own  heart.  Her  face  was  grave,  its  expression  concentrated ; 
she  bent  on  me  an  unsmiling  eye — an  eye  just  returning  from 
abstraction,  just  awaking  from  dreams :  well  arranged  was 
her  simple  attire,  smooth  her  dark  hair,  orderly  her  tranquil 
room  ;  but  what — with  her  thoughtful  look,  her  serious  self- 
reliance,  her  bent  to  meditation  and  haply  inspiration — what 
had  she  to  do  with  love  ?  '  Nothing,'  was  the  answer  of 
her  own  sad,  though  gentle  countenance ;  it  seemed  to  say, 
'  I  must  cultivate  fortitude  and  cling  to  poetry ;  one  is  to  be 
my  support  and  the  other  my  solace  through  life.  Human 
affections  do  not  bloom,  nor  do  human  passions  glow  for  me.' 
Other  women  have  such  thoughts.  Frances,  had  she  been 
as  desolate  as  she  deemed,  would  not  have  been  worse  off 
than  thousands  of  her  sex.  Look  at  the  rigid  and  formal 
race  of  old  maids — the  race  whom  all  despise  ;  they  have  fed 
themselves,  from  youth  upwards,  on  maxims  of  resignation 
and  endurance.  Many  of  them  get  ossified  with  the  dry  diet ; 
self-control  is  so  continually  their  thought,  so  perpetually 
their  object,  that  at  last  it  absorbs  the  softer  and  more  agree- 
able qualities  of  their  nature,  and  they  die  mere  models  of 
austerity,  fashioned  out  of  a  little  parchment  and  much  bone. 
Anatomists  will  tell  you  that  there  is  a  heart  in  the  withered  old 
maid's  carcass — the  same  as  in  that  of  any  cherished  wife  or 
proud  mother  in  the  land.  Can  this  be  so?  I  really  don't 
know  ;  but  feel  inclined  to  doubt  it. 

I  came  forward,  bade  Frances  '  good-evening,'  and  took 
my  seat.  The  chair  I  had  chosen  was  one  she  had  probably 
just  left ;  it  stood  by  a  little  table  where  were  her  open  desk 
and  papers.  I  know  not  whether  she  had  fully  recognised 
me  at  first,  but  she  did  so  now  ;  and  in  a  voice,  soft  but  quiet, 
she  returned  my  greeting.  I  had  shown  no  eagerness ;  she 
took  her  cue  from  me,  and  evinced  no  surprise.  We  met  as 
we  had  always  met,  as  master  and  pupil — nothing  more. 


224  THE   PROFESSOR 

I  proceeded  to  handle  the  papers  ;  Frances,  ohservant  and 
serviceable,  stepped  into  an  inner  room,  brought  a  candle,  lit 
it,  placed  it  by  me  ;  then  drew  the  curtain  over  the  lattice, 
and  having  added  a  little  fresh  fuel  to  the  already  bright  fire, 
she  drew  a  second  chair  to  the  table,  and  sat  down  at  my 
right  hand,  a  little  removed.  The  paper  on  the  top  was  a 
translation  of  some  grave  French  author  into  English,  but 
underneath  lay  a  sheet  with  stanzas ;  on  this  I  laid  hands. 
Frances  half  rose,  made  a  movement  to  recover  the  captured 
spoil,  saying,  that  was  nothing — a  mere  copy  of  verses.  I 
put  by  resistance  with  the  decision  I  knew  she  never  long 
opposed  ;  but  on  this  occasion  her  fingers  had  fastened  on 
the  paper.  I  had  quietly  to  unloose  them  ;  their  hold  dissolved 
to  my  touch  ;  her  hand  shrunk  away ;  my  own  would  fain 
have  followed  it,  but  for  the  present  I  forbade  such  impulse. 
The  first  page  of  the  sheet  was  occupied  with  the  lines  I  had 
overheard ;  the  sequel  was  not  exactly  the  writer's  own 
experience,  but  a  composition  by  portions  of  that  experience 
suggested.  Thus,  while  egotism  was  avoided,  the  fancy  was 
exercised,  and  the  heart  satisfied.  I  translate  as  before,  and 
my  translation  is  nearly  literal ;  it  continued  thus : — 

When  sickness  stayed  awhile  my  course, 

He  seem'd  impatient  still, 
Because  his  pupil's  flagging  force 

Could  not  obey  his  will. 

One  day  when  summoned  to  the  bed 

Where  pain  and  I  did  strive, 
I  heard  him,  as  he  bent  his  head, 

Say,  '  God,  she  must  revive  ! ' 

I  felt  his  hand,  with  gentle  stress, 

A  moment  laid  on  mine, 
And  wished  to  mark  my  consciousness 

By  some  responsive  sign. 

But  pow'rless  then  to  speak  or  move, 

I  only  felt,  within. 
The  sense  of  Hope,  the  strength  of  Love, 

Their  healing  work  begin. 


THE  PROFESSOE  225 

And  as  he  from  the  room  withdrew, 

My  heart  his  steps  pursued ; 
I  long'd  to  prove,  by  efforts  new, 

My  speechless  gratitude. 

When  once  again  I  took  my  place, 

Long  vacant,  in  the  class, 
Th'  unfrequent  smile  across  his  face 

Did  for  one  moment  pass. 

The  lessons  done ;  the  signal  made 

Of  glad  release  and  play, 
He,  as  he  passed,  an  instant  stay'd, 

One  kindly  word  to  say. 

'  Jane,  till  to-morrow  you  are  free 

From  tedious  task  and  rule  ; 
This  afternoon  I  must  not  see 

That  yet  pale  face  in  school. 

'  Seek  in  the  garden-shades  a  seat, 

Far  from  the  playground  din  ; 
The  sun  is  warm,  the  air  is  sweet: 

Stay  till  I  call  you  in." 

A  long  and  pleasant  afternoon 

I  passed  in  those  green  bowers ; 
All  silent,  tranquil,  and  alone 

With  birds,  and  bees,  and  flowers. 

Yet,  when  my  master's  voice  I  heard 

Call,  from  the  window,  '  Jane  ! ' 
I  entered,  joyful,  at  the  word, 

The  busy  house  again. 

He,  in  the  hall,  paced  up  and  down ; 

He  paused  as  I  passed  by ; 
His  forehead  stern  relaxed  its  frown  ; 

He  raised  his  deep-set  eye. 

'  Not  quite  so  pale,'  he  murmured  low. 

'  Now,  Jane,  go  rest  awhile.' 
And  us  I  smiled,  his  smoothened  brow 

Returned  as  triad  a  smile. 


226  THE  PEOFESSOE 

My  perfect  health  restored,  he  took 

His  mien  austere  again  ; 
And,  as  before,  he  would  not  brook 

The  slightest  fault  from  Jane. 

The  longest  task,  the  hardest  theme 

Fell  to  my  share  as  erst, 
And  still  I  toiled  to  place  my  name 

In  every  study  first. 

He  yet  begrudged  and  stinted  praise, 

But  I  had  learnt  to  read 
The  secret  meaning  of  his  face, 

And  that  was  my  best  meed. 

Even  when  his  hasty  temper  spoke 
In  tones  that  sorrow  stirred, 

My  grief  was  lulled  as  soon  as  woke 
By  some  relenting  word. 

And  when  he  lent  some  precious  book, 
Or  gave  some  fragrant  flower, 

I  did  not  quail  to  Envy's  look, 
Upheld  by  Pleasure's  power. 

At  last  our  school  ranks  took  their  ground 
The  hard-fought  field  I  won  ; 

The  prize,  a  laurel-wreath,  was  bound 
My  throbbing  forehead  on. 

Low  at  my  master's  knee  I  bent, 
The  offered  crown  to  meet ; 

Its  green  leaves  through  my  temples  sent 
A  thrill  as  wild  as  sweet. 

The  strong  pulse  of  Ambition  struck 

In  every  vein  I  owned  ; 
At  the  same  instant,  bleeding  broke 

A  secret,  inward  wound. 

The  hour  of  triumph  was  to  me 
The  hour  of  sorrow  sore  ; 

A  day  hence  I  must  cross  the  sea* 
Ne'er  to  recross  it  more. 


THE  PROFESSOR  227 

An  hour  hence,  in  my  master's  room, 

I  with  him  sat  alone, 
And  told  him  what  a  dreary  gloom 

O'er  joy  had  parting  thrown. 

He  little  said  ;  the  time  was  brief, 

The  ship  was  soon  to  sail, 
And  while  I  sobbed  in  bitter  grief, 

My  master  but  looked  pale. 

They  called  in  haste  ;  he  bade  me  go, 

Then  snatched  me  back  again  ; 
He  held  me  fast  and  murmured  low, 

'  Why  will  they  part  us,  Jane  ? 

'  Were  you  not  happy  in  my  care? 

Did  I  not  faithful  prove  ? 
Will  others  to  my  darling  bear 

As  true,  as  deep  a  love  ? 

'  O  God,  watch  o'er  my  foster  child  ! 

0  guard  her  gentle  head  ! 
When  winds  are  high  and  tempests  wild 

Protection  round  her  spread ! 

1  They  call  again  ;  leave  then  my  breast ; 

Quit  thy  true  shelter,  Jane ; 
But  when  deceived,  repulsed,  opprest, 

Come  home  to  me  again  ! ' 

I  read — then  dreamily  made  marks  on  the  margin  with  my 
pencil ;  thinking  all  the  while  of  other  things  ;  thinking  that 
'  Jane  '  was  now  at  my  side  ;  no  child,  but  a  girl  of  nineteen  ; 
and  she  might  be  mine,  so  my  heart  affirmed  ;  Poverty's 
curse  was  taken  off  me  ;  Envy  and  Jealousy  were  far  away, 
and  unapprised  of  this  our  quiet  meeting  ;  the  frost  of  the 
Master's  manner  might  melt ;  I  felt  the  thaw  coming  fast, 
whether  I  would  or  not ;  no  further  need  for  the  eye  to 
practise  a  hard  look,  for  the  brow  to  compress  its  expanse 
into  a  stern  fold  :  it  was  now  permitted  to  suffer  the  outward 
revelation  of  the  inward  glow — to  seek,  demand,  elicit  an 


228  THE   PROFESSOR 

answering  ardour.  While  musing  thus,  I  thought  that  the 
grass  on  Hermon  never  drank  the  fresh  dews  of  sunset 
more  gratefully  than  my  feelings  drank  the  bliss  of  this 
hour. 

Frances  rose,  as  if  restless  ;  she  passed  before  me  to  stir 
the  fire,  which  did  not  want  stirring  ;  she  lifted  and  put 
down  the  little  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece  ;  her  dress 
waved  within  a  yard  of  me ;  slight,  straight,  and  elegant, 
she  stood  erect  on  the  hearth. 

There  are  impulses  we  can  control ;  but  there  are  others 
which  control  us,  because  they  attain  us  with  a  tiger-leap, 
and  are  our  masters  ere  we  have  seen  them.  Perhaps, 
though,  such  impulses  are  seldom  altogether  bad  ;  perhaps 
Reason,  by  a  process  as  brief  as  quiet,  a  process  that  is 
finished  ere  felt,  has  ascertained  the  sanity  of  the  deed. 
Instinct  meditates,  and  feels  justified  in  remaining  passive 
while  it  is  performed.  I  know  I  did  not  reason,  I  did  not 
plan  or  intend,  yet,  whereas  one  moment  I  was  sitting  solus 
on  the  chair  near  the  table,  the  next,  I  held  Frances  on  my 
knee,  placed  there  with  sharpness  and  decision,  and  retained 
with  exceeding  tenacity. 

'  Monsieur  !  '  cried  Frances,  and  was  still :  not  another 
word  escaped  her  lips ;  sorely  confounded  she  seemed 
during  the  lapse  of  the  first  few  moments  ;  but  the  amaze- 
ment soon  subsided  ;  terror  did  not  succeed,  nor  fury  :  after 
all,  she  was  only  a  little  nearer  than  she  had  ever  been 
before,  to  one  she  habitually  respected  and  trusted  ;  em- 
barrassment might  have  impelled  her  to  contend,  but  self- 
respect  checked  resistance  where  resistance  was  useless. 

'  Frances,  how  much  regard  have  you  for  me  ? '  was  my 
demand.  No  answer ;  the  situation  was  yet  too  new  and 
surprising  to  permit  speech.  On  this  consideration,  I  com- 
pelled myself  for  some  seconds  to  tolerate  her  silence, 
though  impatient  of  it :  presently,  I  repeated  the  same 
question— probably,  not  in  the  calmest  of  tones  ;  she  looked 
at  me  ;  my  face,  doubtless,  was  no  model  of  composure,  my 
eyes  no  still  wells  of  tranquillity. 


THE  PEOFESSOR  229 

'  Do  speak,'  I  urged  ;  and  a  very  low,  hurried,  yet  still 
arch  voice  said — '  Monsieur,  vous  me  faites  du  mal ;  de  grace 
lachez  un  peu  ma  main  droite.' 

In  truth  I  hecame  aware  that  I  was  holding  the  said 
'  main  droite '  in  a  somewhat  ruthless  grasp :  I  did  as 
desired ;  and,  for  the  third  time,  asked  more  gently — 
'  Frances,  how  much  regard  have  you  for  me?  ' 

'  Mon  maitre,  j'en  ai  beaucoup,'  was  the  truthful 
rejoinder. 

1  Frances,  have  you  enough  to  give  yourself  to  me  as  my 
wife  ? — to  accept  me  as  your  husband  ?  ' 

I  felt  the  agitation  of  the  heart,  I  saw  '  the  purple  light 
of  love '  cast  its  glowing  reflection  on  cheeks,  temples, 
neck  ;  I  desired  to  consult  the  eye,  but  sheltering  lash  and 
lid  forbade. 

'  Monsieur,'  said  the  soft  voice  at  last, — '  Monsieur 
desire  savoir  si  je  consens — si — enfin,  si  je  veux  me  marier 
avec  lui  ? ' 

'  Justement.' 

1  Monsieur  sera-t-il  aussi  bon  mari  qu'il  a  6t6  bon  maitre  ? ' 

'  I  will  try,  Frances." 

A  pause ;  then  with  a  new,  yet  still  subdued  inflexion  of 
the  voice — an  inflexion  which  provoked  while  it  pleased  me 
— accompanied,  too,  by  a  '  sourire  a  la  i'ois  fin  et  timide  '  in 
perfect  harmony  with  the  tone  : — '  C'est  a  dire,  Monsieur 
sera  toujours  un  peu  entete,  exigeant,  volontaire ? ' 

'  Have  I  been  so,  Frances  ?  ' 

'  Mais  oui ;  vous  le  savez  bien.' 

'  Have  I  been  nothing  else  ? ' 

'  Mais  oui ;  vous  avez  ete  mon  meilleur  ami.' 

'  And  what,  Frances,  are  you  to  me  ?  ' 

'  Votre  devouee  eleve,  qui  vous  aime  de  tout  son  coeur.' 

'  Will  my  pupil  consent  to  pass  her  life  with  me  ?  Speak 
English  now,  Frances.' 

Some  moments  were  taken  for  reflection  ;  the  answer, 
pronounced  slowly,  ran  thus  : — 

'  You  have  always  made  me  happy  ;  I  like  to  hear  you 


230  THE  PKOFESSOR 

speak ;  I  like  to  see  you ;  I  like  to  be  near  you ;  I  believe 
you  are  very  good,  and  very  superior;  I  know  you  are 
stern  to  those  who  are  careless  and  idle,  but  yon  are  kind, 
very  kind  to  the  attentive  and  industrious,  even  if  they  are 
not  clever.  Master,  I  should  be  glad  to  live  with  you  always ; ' 
and  she  made  a  sort  of  movement,  as  if  she  would  have  clung 
to  me,  but  restraining  herself  she  only  added  with  earnest 
emphasis — '  Master,  I  consent  to  pass  my  life  with  you.' 

'  Very  well,  Frances.' 

I  drew  her  a  little  nearer  to  my  heart ;  I  took  a  first  kiss 
from  her  lips,  thereby  sealing  the  compact,  now  framed 
between  us ;  afterwards  she  and  I  were  silent,  nor  was  our 
silence  brief.  Frances'  thoughts,  during  this  interval,  I  know 
not,  nor  did  I  attempt  to  guess  them ;  I  was  not  occupied  in 
searching  her  countenance,  nor  in  otherwise  troubling 
her  composure.  The  peace  I  felt,  I  wished  her  to  feel ;  my 
arm,  it  is  true,  still  detained  her ;  but  with  a  restraint  that 
was  gentle  enough,  so  long  as  no  opposition  tightened  it. 
My  gaze  was  on  the  red  fire  ;  my  heart  was  measuring  its 
own  content ;  it  sounded  and  sounded,  and  found  the  depth 
fathomless. 

'  Monsieur,'  at  last  said  my  quiet  companion,  as  stirless 
in  her  happiness  as  a  mouse  in  its  terror.  Even  now  in 
speaking  she  scarcely  lifted  her  head. 

'  Well,  Frances  ? '  I  like  unexaggerated  intercourse ;  it  is 
not  my  way  to  overpower  with  amorous  epithets,  any  more 
than  to  worry  with  selfishly  importunate  caresses. 

'  Monsieur  est  raisonnable,  n'est-ce  pas'?' 

'  Yes ;  especially  when  I  am  requested  to  be  so  in 
English :  but  why  do  you  ask  me  ?  You  see  nothing 
vehement  or  obtrusive  in  my  manner  ;  am  I  not  tranquil 
enough  ?  ' 

'  Ce  n'est  pas  cela — '  began  Frances. 

'  English  !  '  I  reminded  her. 

'  Well,  Monsieur,  I  wished  merely  to  say,  that  I  should 
like,  of  course,  to  retain  my  employment  of  teaching.  You 
will  teach  still,  I  suppose,  Monsieur  ?  ' 


THE   PKOFESSOK  231 

'  Oh,  yes  !     It  is  all  I  have  to  depend  on.' 

1  Bon ! — I  mean  good.  Thus  we  shall  have  both  the 
same  profession.  I  like  that ;  and  my  efforts  to  get  on  will 
be  as  unrestrained  as  yours — will  they  not,  Monsieur  ? ' 

1  You  are  laying  plans  to  be  independent  of  me,'  said  I. 

'  Yes,  Monsieur ;  I  must  be  no  incumbrance  to  you — no 
burden  in  any  way.' 

'  But,  Frances,  I  have  not  yet  told  you  what  my  prospects 
are.  I  have  left  M.  Pelet's ;  and  after  nearly  a  month's 
seeking,  I  have  got  another  place,  with  a  salary  of  three 
thousand  francs  a  year,  which  I  can  easily  double  by  a  little 
additional  exertion.  Thus  you  see  it  would  be  useless  for 
you  to  fag  yourself  by  going  out  to  give  lessons  ;  on  six 
thousand  francs  you  and  I  can  live,  and  live  well.' 

Frances  seemed  to  consider.  There  is  something  flattering 
to  man's  strength,  something  consonant  to  his  honourable 
pride,  in  the  idea  of  becoming  the  providence  of  what  he  loves 
— feeding  and  clothing  it,  as  God  does  the  lilies  of  the  field. 
So,  to  decide  her  resolution,  I  went  on  : — 

'  Life  has  been  painful  and  laborious  enough  to  you  so 
far,  Frances ;  you  require  complete  rest ;  your  twelve 
hundred  francs  would  not  form  a  very  important  addition 
to  our  income,  and  what  sacrifice  of  comfort  to  earn  it ! 
Eelinquish  your  labours :  you  must  be  weary,  and  let  me 
have  the  happiness  of  giving  you  rest.' 

I  am  not  sure  whether  Frances  had  accorded  due  attention 
to  my  harangue  ;  instead  of  answering  me  with  her  usual 
respectful  promptitude,  she  only  sighed  and  said, — '  How 
rich  you  are,  Monsieur !  '  and  then  she  stirred  uneasy  in  my 
arms.  '  Three  thousand  francs  ! '  she  murmured,  '  while  I 
get  only  twelve  hundred  !  '  She  went  on  faster.  '  Ho\vever, 
it  must  be  so  for  the  present ;  and,  Monsieur,  were  you  not 
saying  something  about  my  giving  up  my  place  ?  Oh,  no  ! 
I  shall  hold  it  fast  ;  '  and  her  little  fingers  emphatically 
tightened  on  mine.  '  Think  of  my  marrying  you  to  be  kept 
by  you,  Monsieur  !  I  could  not  do  it ;  and  how  dull  my 
days  would  be !  You  would  be  away  teaching  in  close, 


232  THE   PROFESSOR 

noisy  schoolrooms,  from  morning  till  evening,  and  I  should 
be  lingering  at  home,  unemployed  and  solitary  ;  I  should  get 
depressed  and  sullen,  and  you  would  soon  tire  of  me.' 

'  Frances,  you  could  read  and  study — two  things  you  like 
so  well.' 

'  Monsieur,  I  could  not ;  I  like  a  contemplative  life,  but 
I  like  an  active  life  better  ;  I  must  act  in  some  way,  and 
act  with  you.  I  have  taken  notice,  Monsieur,  that  people 
who  are  only  in  each  other's  company  for  amusement,  never 
really  like  each  other  so  well,  or  esteem  each  other  so 
highly,  as  those  who  work  together,  and  perhaps  suffer 
together.' 

4  You  speak  God's  truth,'  said  I  at  last,  '  and  you  shall 
have  your  own  way,  for  it  is  the  best  way.  Now,  as  a  reward 
for  such  ready  consent,  give  me  a  voluntary  kiss.' 

After  some  hesitation,  natural  to  a  novice  in  the  art  of 
kissing,  she  brought  her  lips  into  very  shy  and  gentle  contact 
with  my  forehead  ;  I  took  the  small  gift  as  a  loan,  and 
repaid  it  promptly,  and  with  generous  interest. 

I  know  not  whether  Frances  was  really  much  altered 
since  the  time  I  first  saw  her  ;  but,  as  I  looked  at  her  now, 
I  felt  that  she  was  singularly  changed  for  me  ;  the  sad  eye, 
the  pale  cheek,  the  dejected  and  joyless  countenance  I 
remembered  as  her  early  attributes,  were  quite  gone,  and 
now  I  saw  a  face  dressed  in  graces ;  smile,  dimple,  and  rosy 
tint,  rounded  its  contours  and  brightened  its  hues.  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  nurse  a  flattering  idea  that  my  strong 
attachment  to  her  proved  some  particular  perspicacity  in  my 
nature ;  she  was  not  handsome,  she  was  not  rich,  she  was 
not  even  accomplished,  yet  was  she  my  life's  treasure ;  I 
must  then  be  a  man  of  peculiar  discernment.  To-night  my 
eyes  opened  on  the  mistake  I  had  made  ;  I  began  to  suspect 
that  it  was  only  my  tastes  which  were  unique,  not  my  power 
of  discovering  and  appreciating  the  superiority  of  moral 
worth  over  physical  charms.  For  me  Frances  had  physical 
charms  :  in  her  there  was  no  deformity  to  get  over  ;  none  of 
those  prominent  defects  of  eyes,  teeth,  complexion,  shape, 


THE  PROFESSOR  233 

which  hold  at  bay  the  admiration  of  the  boldest  male 
champions  of  intellect  (for  women  can  love  a  downright 
ugly  man  if  he  b3  but  talented) ;  had  she  been  either 
'  edentee,  myope,  rugueuse,  ou  bossue,'  my  feelings  towards 
her  might  still  have  been  kindly,  but  they  could  never  have 
been  impassioned ;  I  had  affection  for  the  poor  little  mis- 
shapen Sylvie,  but  for  her  I  could  never  have  had  love.  It  is 
true  Frances'  mental  points  had  been  the  first  to  interest  me, 
and  they  still  retained  the  strongest  hold  on  my  preference  ; 
but  I  liked  the  graces  of  her  person  too.  I  derived  a 
pleasure,  purely  material,  from  contemplating  the  clearness 
of  her  brown  eyes,  the  fairness  of  her  fine  skin,  the  purity 
of  her  well-set  teeth,  the  proportion  of  her  delicate  form  ; 
and  that  pleasure  I  could  ill  have  dispensed  with.  It  ap- 
peared, then,  that  I  too  was  a  sensualist,  in  my  temperate 
and  fastidious  way. 

Now,  reader,  during  the  last  two  pages  I  have  been 
giving  you  honey  fresh  from  flowers,  but  you  must  not  live 
entirely  on  food  so  luscious  ;  taste  then  a  little  gall — just  a 
drop,  by  way  of  change. 

At  a  somewhat  late  hour  I  returned  to  my  lodgings : 
having  temporarily  forgotten  that  man  had  any  such  coarse 
cares  as  those  of  eating  and  drinking,  I  went  to  bed  fasting. 
I  had  been  excited  and  in  action  all  day,  and  had  tasted  no 
food  since  eight  that  morning  ;  besides,  for  a  fortnight  past, 
I  had  known  no  rest  either  of  body  or  mind  ;  the  last  few 
hours  had  been  a  sweet  delirium,  it  would  not  subside  now, 
and  till  long  after  midnight  broke  with  troubled  ecstasy  the 
rest  I  so  much  needed.  At  last  I  dozed,  but  not  for  long  ; 
it  was  yet  quite  dark  when  I  awoke,  and  my  waking  was  like 
that  of  Job  when  a  spirit  passed  before  his  face,  and  like 
him,  '  the  hair  of  my  flesh  stood  up.'  I  might  continue  the 
parallel,  for  in  truth,  though  I  saw  nothing,  yet  '  a  thing  was 
secretly  brought  unto  me,  and  mine  ear  received  a  little 
thereof ;  there  was  silence,  and  I  heard  a  voice  '  saying — '  In 
the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death.' 

fhat  sound,  and  the  sensation  of  chill  anguish  accom- 


234  THE   PROFESSOR 

panying  it,  many  would  have  regarded  as  supernatural ;  but 
I  recognised  it  at  once  as  the  effect  of  reaction.  Man  is 
ever  clogged  with  his  mortality,  and  it  was  my  mortal 
nature  which  now  faltered  and  plained ;  my  nerves,  wrhich 
jarred  and  gave  a  false  sound,  because  the  soul,  of  late 
rushing  headlong  to  an  aim,  had  overstrained  the  body's 
comparative  weakness.  A  horror  of  great  darkness  fell  upon 
me ;  I  felt  my  chamber  invaded  by  one  I  had  known 
formerly,  but  had  thought  for  ever  departed.  I  was  tempo- 
rarily a  prey  to  hypochondria. 

She  had  been  my  acquaintance,  nay,  my  guest,  once 
befoi-e  in  boyhood ;  I  had  entertained  her  at  bed  and  board 
for  a  year  ;  for  that  space  of  time  I  had  her  to  myself  in 
secret ;  she  lay  with  me,  she  ate  with  me,  she  walked  out 
with  me,  showing  me  nooks  in  woods,  hollows  in  hills,  where 
we  could  sit  together,  and  where  she  could  drop  her  drear 
veil  over  me,  and  so  hide  sky  and  sun,  grass  and  green  tree ; 
taking  me  entirely  to  her  death-cold  bosom,  and  holding  me 
with  arms  of  bone.  What  tales  she  would  tell  me  at  such 
hours  !  What  songs  she  would  recite  in  my  ears !  How  she 
would  discourse  to  me  of  her  own  country— the  grave — and 
again  and  again  promise  to  conduct  me  there  ere  long  ;  and 
drawing  me  to  the  very  brink  of  a  black,  sullen  river,  show 
me,  on  the  other  side,  shores  unequal  with  mound,  monument, 
and  tablet,  standing  up  in  a  glimmer  more  hoary  than  moon- 
light. '  Necropolis  ! '  she  would  whisper,  pointing  to  the 
pale  piles,  and  add,  '  It  contains  a  mansion  prepared  for 
you.' 

But  my  boyhood  was  lonely,  parentless  ;  uncheered  by 
brother  or  sister ;  and  there  was  no  marvel  that,  just  as  I 
rose  to  youth,  a  sorceress,  finding  me  lost  in  vague  mental 
wanderings,  with  many  affections  and  few  objects,  glowing 
aspirations  and  gloomy  prospects,  strong  desires  and  slender 
hopes,  should  lift  up  her  illusive  lamp  to  me  in  the  distance, 
and  lure  me  to  her  vaulted  home  of  horrors.  No  wonder  her 
spells  thi'n  h;id  power  ;  but  tiaw,  when  my  course  was 
widening,  my  prospect  brightening ;  when  my  affections  had 


THE  PEOFESSOK  235 

found  a  rest ;  when  my  desires,  folding  wings,  weary  with 
long  flight,  had  just  alighted  on  the  very  lap  of  fruition,  and 
nestled  there  warm,  content,  under  the  caress  of  a  soft  hand 
— why  did  hypochondria  accost  me  now? 

I  repulsed  her  as  one  would  a  dreaded  and  ghastly 
concubine  coming  to  embitter  a  husband's  heart  toward  his 
young  bride  ;  in  vain ;  she  kept  her  sway  over  me  for  that 
night  and  the  next  day,  and  eight  succeeding  days.  After- 
wards, my  spirits  began  slowly  to  recover  their  tone ;  my 
appetite  returned,  and  in  a  fortnight  I  was  well.  I  had  gone 
about  as  usual  all  the  time,  and  had  said  nothing  to  any- 
body of  what  I  felt;  but  I  was  glad  when  the  evil  spirit 
departed  from  me,  and  I  could  again  seek  Frances,  and 
sit  at  her  side  freed  from  the  dreadful  tyranny  of  my 
demon. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ONE  fine  frosty  Sunday  in  November,  Frances  and  I  took  a 
long  walk ;  we  made  the  tour  of  the  city  by  the  Boulevards  ; 
and,  afterwards,  Frances  being  a  little  tired,  we  sat  down  on 
one  of  those  wayside  seats  placed  under  the  trees,  at  inter- 
vals, for  the  accommodation  of  the  weary.  Frances  was 
telling  me  about  Switzerland  ;  the  subject  animated  her ; 
and  I  was  just  thinking  that  her  eyes  spoke  full  as  eloquently 
as  her  tongue,  when  she  stopped  and  remarked — '  Monsieur, 
there  is  a  gentleman  who  knows  you.' 

I  looked  up  ;  three  fashionably  dressed  men  were  just 
then  passing — Englishmen,  I  knew  by  their  air  and  gait  as 
well  as  by  their  features  ;  in  the  tallest  of  the  trio  I  at  once 
recognised  Mr.  Hunsden ;  he  was  in  the  act  of  lifting  his 
hat  to  Frances ;  afterwards,  he  made  a  grimace  at  me  and 
passed  on. 

'  Who  is  he  ? ' 

'A  person  I  knew  in  England.' 

'  Why  did  he  bow  to  me  ?     He  does  not  know  me.' 

'  Yes,  he  does  know  you,  in  his  way.' 

'  How,  Monsieur  ?  '  (She  still  called  me  '  Monsieur  ' ;  I 
could  not  persuade  her  to  adopt  any  more  familiar  term.) 

'  Did  you  not  read  the  expression  of  his  eyes  ? ' 

1  Of  his  eyes  ?     No.     What  did  they  say  ?  ' 

'  To  you  they  said,  "  How  do  you  do,  Wilhelmina 
Crimsworth  ?  "  To  me,  "  So  you  have  found  your  counter- 
part at  last ;  there  she  sits,  the  female  of  your  kind  !  " 

'  Monsieur,  you  could  not  read  all  that  in  his  eyes  ;  he 
was  so  soon  gone.' 


THE  PBOFtiSSOft  237 

'  I  read  that  and  more,  Frances  ;  I  read  that  he  will 
probably  call  on  me  this  evening,  or  on  some  future  occasion 
shortly  ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  insist  on  being  intro- 
duced to  you  ;  shall  I  bring  him  to  your  rooms  ?  ' 

'  If  you  please,  Monsieur — I  have  no  objection  ;  I  think, 
indeed,  I  should  rather  like  to  see  him  nearer ;  he  looks  so 
original.' 

As  I  had  anticipated,  Mr.  Hunsden  came  that  evening. 
The  first  thing  he  said  was  : — '  You  need  not  begin  boasting, 
Monsieur  le  Professeur  ;  I  know  about  your  appointment  to 
— College,  and  all  that ;  Brown  has  told  me.'  Then  he 
intimated  that  he  had  returned  from  Germany  but  a  day  or 
two  since  ;  afterwards,  he  abruptly  demanded  whether  that 
was  Madame  Pelet-Keuter  with  whom  he  had  seen  me  on 
the  Boulevards.  I  was  going  to  utter  a  rather  emphatic 
negative,  but  on  second  thoughts  I  checked  myself,  and, 
seeming  to  assent,  asked  what  he  thought  of  her  ? 

'  As  to  her,  I'll  come  to  that  directly ;  but  first  I've  a 
word  for  you.  I  see  you  are  a  scoundrel ;  you've  no  business 
to  be  promenading  about  with  another  man's  wife.  I  thought 
you  had  sounder  sense  than  to  get  mixed  up  in  foreign  hodge- 
podge of  this  sort.' 

'  But  the  lady  ?  ' 

'  She's  too  good  for  you  evidently ;  she  is  like  you,  but 
something  better  than  you — no  beauty,  though  ;  yet  when 
she  rose  (for  I  looked  back  to  see  you  both  walk  away)  I 
thought  her  figure  and  carriage  good.  These  foreigners 
understand  grace.  What  the  devil  has  she  done  with  Pelet  ? 
She  has  not  been  married  to  him  three  months — he  must  be 
a  spoon  ! ' 

I  would  not  let  the  mistake  go  too  far ;  I  did  not  like  it 
much. 

'  Pelet  ?  How  your  head  runs  on  Mons.  and  Madame 
Pelet !  You  are  always  talking  about  them.  I  wish  to  the 
gods  you  had  wed  Mdlle.  Zonude  yourself?' 

'  Was  that  young  gentlewoman  not  Mdlle.  Zoraide  ?  ' 

'  No  ;  nor  Madame  Zoraide  either.' 


238  THE  PEOFESSOB 

'  Why  did  you  tell  a  He,  then  ?  ' 

1 1  told  no  lie  ;  but  you  are  in  such  a  hurry.  She  is  a. 
pupil  of  mine — a  Swiss  girl.' 

'  And  of  course  you  are  going  to  be  married  to  her  ? 
Don't  deny  that.' 

'  Married  !  I  think  I  shall — -if  Fate  spares  us  both  ten 
weeks  longer.  That  is  my  little  wild  strawberry,  Hunsden, 
whose  sweetness  made  me  careless  of  your  hot-house  grapes.' 

'  Stop !  No  boasting — no  heroics  ;  I  won't  bear  them. 
What  is  she  ?  To  what  caste  does  she  belong  ?  ' 

I  smiled.  Hunsden  unconsciously  laid  stress  on  the 
word  caste,  and,  in  fact,  republican  lord-hater  as  he  was, 
Hunsden  was  as  proud  of  his  old  -  — shire  blood,  of  his 
descent  and  family  standing,  respectable  and  respected 
through  long  generations  back,  as  any  peer  in  the  realm  of 
his  Norman  race  and  Conquest-dated  title.  Hunsden  would 
as  little  have  thought  of  taking  a  wife  from  a  caste  inferior  to 
his  own,  as  a  Stanley  would  think  of  mating  with  a  Cobden. 
I  enjoyed  the  surprise  I  should  give ;  I  enjoyed  the  triumph 
of  my  practice  over  his  theory ;  and  leaning  over  the  table, 
and  uttering  the  words  slowly  but  with  repressed  glee,  I  said 
concisely — '  She  is  a  lace-mender.' 

Hunsden  examined  me.  He  did  not  say  he  was  surprised, 
but  surprised  he  was ;  he  had  his  own  notions  of  good 
breeding.  I  saw  he  suspected  I  was  going  to  take  some  very 
rash  step  ;  but  repressing  declamation  or  remonstrance,  he 
only  answered — '  Well,  you  are  the  best  judge  of  your  own 
affairs.  A  lace-mender  may  make  a  good  wife  as  well  as  a 
lady ;  but  of  course  you  have  taken  care  to  ascertain 
thoroughly  that  since  she  has  not  education,  fortune  or  station, 
she  is  well  furnished  with  such  natural  qualities  as  you  think 
most  likely  to  conduce  to  your  happiness.  Has  she  many 
relations  ?  ' 

'  None  in  Brussels.' 

'  That  is  better.  Eelations  are  often  the  real  evil  in  such 
cases.  I  cannot  but  think  that  a  train  of  inferior  connections 
would  have  been  a  bore  to  you  to  your  life's  end.' 


THE  PEOFESSOR  239 

After  sitting  in  silence  a  little  while  longer,  Hunsden  rose, 
and  was  quietly  bidding  me  good-evening ;  the  polite, 
considerate  manner  in  which  he  offered  me  his  hand  (a  thing 
he  had  never  done  before,)  convinced  me  that  he  thought  I 
had  made  a  terrible  fool  of  myself ;  and  that,  ruined  and 
thrown  away  as  I  was,  it  was  no  time  for  sarcasm  or  cynicism, 
or  indeed  for  anything  but  indulgence  and  forbearance. 

'Good-night,  William,'  he  said,  in  a  really  soft  voice, 
while  his  face  looked  benevolently  compassionate.  '  Good- 
night, lad.  I  wish  you  and  your  future  wife  much  prosperity  ; 
and  I  hope  she  will  satisfy  your  fastidious  soul.' 

I  had  much  ado  to  refrain  from  laughing  as  I  beheld  the 
magnanimous  pity  of  his  mien  ;  maintaining,  however,  a  grave 
air,  I  said :  '  I  thought  you  would  have  liked  to  have  seen 
Mdlle.  Henri  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  that  is  the  name  !  Yes — if  it  would  be  convenient, 
I  should  like  to  see  her — but '  He  hesitated. 

'  Well  ? ' 

'  I  should  on  no  account  wish  to  intrude.' 

1  Come,  then/  said  I.  We  set  out.  Hunsden  no  doubt 
regarded  me  as  a  rash,  imprudent  man,  thus  to  show  my  poor 
little  grisette  sweetheart,  in  her  poor  little  unfurnished 
grenier  ;  but  he  prepared  to  act  the  real  gentleman,  having, 
in  fact,  the  kernel  of  that  character,  under  the  harsh  husk  it 
pleased  him  to  wear  by  way  of  mental  mackintosh.  He 
talked  affably,  and  even  gently,  as  we  went  along  the  street ; 
he  had  never  been  so  civil  to  me  in  his  life.  We  reached  the 
house,  entered,  ascended  the  stair ;  on  gaining  the  lobby, 
Hunsden  turned  to  mount  a  narrower  stair  which  led  to  a 
higher  story  ;  I  saw  his  mind  was  bent  on  the  attics. 

'  Here,  Mr.  Hunsden,'  said  I  quietly,  tapping  at  Prances' 
door.  He  turned  ;  in  his  genuine  politeness  he  was  a  little 
disconcerted  at  having  made  the  mistake  ;  his  eye  reverted 
to  the  green  mat,  but  he  said  nothing. 

We  walked  in,  and  Frances  rose  from  her  seat  near  the 
table  to  receive  us  ;  her  mourning  attire  gave  her  a  recluse, 
rather  conventual,  but  withal  very  distinguished  look ;  its 


240  THE  PROFESSOR 

grave  simplicity  added  nothing  to  beauty,  but  much  to 
dignity ;  the  finish  of  the  white  collar  and  manchettes 
sufficed  for  a  relief  to  the  merino  gown  of  solemn  black ; 
ornament  was  forsworn.  Frances  curtsied  with  sedate  grace, 
looking,  as  she  always  did,  when  one  first  accosted  her, 
more  a  woman  to  respect  than  to  love ;  I  introduced  Mr. 
Hunsden,  and  she  expressed  her  happiness  at  making  his 
acquaintance  in  French.  The  pure  and  polished  accent,  the 
low  yet  sweet  and  rather  full  voice,  produced  their  effect 
immediately ;  Hunsden  spoke  French  in  reply ;  I  had  not 
heard  him  speak  that  language  before  ;  he  managed  it  very 
well.  I  retired  to  the  window-seat;  Mr.  Hunsden,  at  his 
hostess's  invitation,  occupied  a  chair  near  the  hearth ; 
from  my  position  I  could  see  them  both,  and  the  room  too, 
at  a  glance.  The  room  was  so  clean  and  bright,  it  looked 
like  a  little  polished  cabinet ;  a  glass  filled  with  flowers  in 
the  centre  of  the  table,  a  fresh  rose  in  each  china  cup  on  the 
mantelpiece,  gave  it  an  airof/ete.  Frances  was  serious,  and 
Mr.  Hunsden  subdued,  but  both  mutually  polite ;  they  got 
on  at  the  French  swimmingly :  ordinary  topics  were 
discussed  with  great  state  and  decorum  ;  I  thought  I  had 
never  seen  two  such  models  of  propriety,  for  Hunsden 
(thanks  to  the  constraint  of  the  foreign  tongue)  was  obliged 
to  shape  his  phrases,  and  measure  his  sentences,  with  a  care 
that  forbade  any  eccentricity.  At  last  England  was  men- 
tioned, and  Frances  proceeded  to  ask  questions.  Animated 
by  degrees  she  began  to  change,  just  as  a  grave  night-sky 
changes  at  the  approach  of  sunrise  :  first  it  seemed  as  if  her 
forehead  cleared,  then  her  eyes  glittered,  her  features  relaxed, 
and  became  quite  mobile ;  her  subdued  complexion  grew 
warm  and  transparent ;  to  me,  she  now  looked  pretty ; 
before,  she  had  only  looked  ladylike. 

She  had  many  things  to  say  to  the  Englishman  just 
fresh  from  his  island -country,  and  she  urged  him  with  an 
enthusiasm  of  curiosity  which  ere  long  thawed  Hunsden's 
reserve  as  fire  thaws  a  congealed  viper.  1  use  this  not  very 
flattering  comparison  because  he  vividly  reminded  me  of  a 


THE  PROFESSOR  241 

snake  waking  from  torpor,  as  he  erected  his  tall  form, 
reared  his  head,  before  a  little  declined,  and  putting  back  his 
hair  from  his  broad  Saxon  forehead,  showed  unshaded  the 
gleam  of  almost  savage  satire  which  his  interlocutor's  tone  of 
eagerness  and  look  of  ardour  had  sufficed  at  once  to  kindle  in 
his  soul  and  elicit  from  his  eyes  :  he  was  himself,  as  Frances 
was  herself,  and  in  none  but  his  own  language  would  he 
now  address  her. 

1  You  understand  English  ? '  was  the  prefatory  question. 

'  A  little.' 

1  Well,  then,  you  shall  have  plenty  of  it ;  and  first,  I  see 
you've  not  much  more  sense  than  some  others  of  my 
acquaintance  '  (indicating  me  with  his  thumb),  '  or  else  you'd 
never  turn  rabid  about  that  dirty  little  country  called 
England ;  for  rabid,  I  see  you  are ;  I  read  Anglophobia  in 
your  looks,  and  hear  it  in  your  words.  Why,  Mademoiselle, 
is  it  possible  that  anybody  with  a  grain  of  rationality  should 
feel  enthusiasm  about  a  mere  name,  and  that  name  England  ? 
I  thought  you  were  a  lady-abbess  five  minutes  ago,  and 
respected  you  accordingly ;  and  now  I  see  you  are  a  sort  of 
Swiss  sibyl,  with  high  Tory  and  high  Church  principles  ! ' 

'  England  is  your  country  ? '  asked  Frances. 

'  Yes.' 

'  And  you  don't  like  it  ?  ' 

'  I'd  be  sorry  to  like  it !  A  little  corrupt,  venal,  lord-and- 
king-cursed  nation,  full  of  mucky  pride  (as  they  say  in 
— shire),  and  helpless  pauperism  ;  rotten  with  abuses, 
worm-eaten  with  prejudices  !  ' 

'  You  might  say  so  of  almost  every  state  ;  there  are  abuses 
and  prejudices  everywhere,  and  I  thought  fewer  in  England 
than  in  other  countries.' 

'  Come  to  England  and  see.  Come  to  Birmingham  and 
Manchester ;  come  to  St.  Giles's  in  London,  and  gdt  a  prac- 
tical notion  of  how  our  system  works.  Examine  the  foot- 
prints of  our  august  aristocracy ;  see  how  they  walk  in 
blood,  crushing  hearts  as  they  go.  Just  put  your  head  in  at 
English  cottage  doors  ;  get  a  glimpse  of  Famine  crouched 


242  THE   PROFESSOR 

torpid  on  black  hearthstones  ;  of  Disease  lying  bare  on  beds 
without  coverlets,  of  Infamy  wantoning  viciously  with  Ignor- 
ance, though  indeed  Luxury  is  her  favourite  paramour,  and 
princely  halls  are  dearer  to  her  than  thatched  hovels  — 

'  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  wretchedness  and  vice  in 
England ;  I  was  thinking  of  the  good  side — of  what  is 
elevated  in  your  character  as  a  nation.' 

'  There  is  no  good  side — none  at  least  of  which  you  can 
have  any  knowledge ;  for  you  cannot  appreciate  the  efforts  of 
industry,  the  achievements  of  enterprise,  or  the  discoveries  of 
science  :  narrowness  of  education  and  obscurity  of  position 
quite  incapacitate  you  from  understanding  those  points  ;  and 
as  to  historical  and  poetical  associations,  I  will  not  insult  you, 
Mademoiselle,  by  supposing  that  you  alluded  to  such  humbug.' 

1  But  I  did  partly.' 

Hunsden  laughed — his  laugh  of  unmitigated  scorn. 

'  I  did,  Mr.  Hunsden.  Are  you  of  the  number  of  those 
to  whom  such  associations  give  no  pleasure  ? ' 

'  Mademoiselle,  what  is  an  association  ?  I  never  saw  one. 
What  is  its  length,  breadth,  weight,  value — ay,  value  ?  What 
price  will  it  bring  in  the  market  ? ' 

'  Your  portrait,  to  any  one  who  loved  you,  would,  for  the 
sake  of  association,  be  without  price.' 

That  inscrutable  Hunsden  heard  this  remark  and  felt  it 
rather  acutely,  too,  somewhere ;  for  he  coloured — a  thing  not 
unusual  with  him,  when  hit  unawares  on  a  tender  point.  A 
sort  of  trouble  momentarily  darkened  his  eye,  and  I  believe 
he  filled  up  the  transient  pause  succeeding  his  antagonist's 
home-thrust,  by  a  wish  that  some  one  did  love  him  as  he 
would  like  to  be  loved — some  one  whose  love  he  could  unre- 
servedly return. 

The  lady  pursued  her  temporary  advantage. 

'  If  your  world  is  a  world  without  associations,  Mr. 
Hunsden,  I  no  longer  wonder  that  you  hate  England  so.  I 
don't  clearly  know  what  Paradise  is,  and  what  angels  are  ; 
yet  taking  it  to  be  the  most  glorious  region  I  can  conceive, 
and  angels  the  most  elevated  existences — if  one  of  them — if 


THE  PROFESSOR  243 

Abdiel  the  Faithful  himself '  (she  was  thinking  of  Milton) 
'  were  suddenly  stripped  of  the  faculty  of  association,  I  think 
he  would  soon  rush  forth  from  "  the  ever-during  gates," 
leave  heaven,  and  seek  what  he  had  lost  in  hell.  Yes,  in  the 
very  hell  from  which  he  turned  "  with  retorted  scorn."  ' 

Frances'  tone  in  saying  this  was  as  marked  as  her 
language,  and  it  was  when  the  word  '  hell '  twanged  off  from 
her  lips,  with  a  somewhat  startling  emphasis,  that  Hunsden 
deigned  to  bestow  one  slight  glance  of  admiration.  He 
liked  something  strong,  whether  in  man  or  woman  ;  he  liked 
whatever  dared  to  clear  conventional  limits.  He  had  never 
before  heard  a  lady  say  '  hell '  with  that  uncompromising 
sort  of  accent,  and  the  sound  pleased  him  from  a  lady's  lips  ; 
he  would  fain  have  had  Frances  to  strike  the  string  again, 
but  it  was  not  in  her  way.  The  display  of  eccentric  vigour 
never  gave  her  pleasure,  and  it  only  sounded  in  her  voice  or 
flashed  in  her  countenance  when  extraordinary  circumstances 
— and  those  generally  painful — forced  it  out  of  the  depths 
where  it  burned  latent.  To  me,  once  or  twice,  she  had,  in 
intimate  conversation,  uttered  venturous  thoughts  in  nervous 
language  ;  but  when  the  hour  of  such  manifestation  was  past, 
I  could  not  recall  it;  it  came  of  itself  and  of  itself  departed. 
Hunsden's  excitations  she  put  by  soon  with  a  smile,  and 
recurring  to  the  theme  of  disputation,  said — '  Since  England 
is  nothing,  why  do  the  continental  nations  respect  her  so  ? ' 

'  I  should  have  thought  no  child  would  have  asked  that 
question,'  replied  Hunsden,  who  never  at  any  time  gave 
information  without  reproving  for  stupidity  those  who  asked 
it  of  him.  '  If  you  had  been  my  pupil,  as  I  suppose  you 
once  had  the  misfortune  to  be  that  of  a  deplorable  character 
not  a  hundred  miles  off,  I  would  have  put  you  in  the  corner 
for  such  a  confession  of  ignorance.  Why,  Mademoiselle, 
can't  you  see  that  it  is  our  gold  which  buys  us  French 
politeness,  German  good-will,  and  Swiss  servility  ?  '  And 
he  sneered  diabolically. 

'Swiss!'  said  Frances,  catching  the  word  'servility.' 
'  Do  you  call  my  countrymen  servile  ?  '  And  she  started  up. 

9 


244  THE  PROFESSOR 

I  could  not  suppress  a  low  laugh ;  there  was  ire  in  her 
glance  and  defiance  in  her  attitude.  '  Do  you  abuse  Switzer- 
land to  me,  Mr.  Hunsden?  Do  you  think  I  have  no 
associations  ?  Do  you  calculate  that  I  am  prepared  to 
dwell  only  on  what  vice  and  degradation  may  be  found  in 
Alpine  villages,  and  to  leave  quite  out  of  my  heart  the 
social  greatness  of  my  countrymen,  and  our  blood-earned 
freedom,  and  the  natural  glories  of  our  mountains  ?  You're 
mistaken — you're  mistaken.' 

'  Social  greatness  ?  Call  it  what  you  will,  your  countrymen 
are  sensible  fellows ;  they  make  a  marketable  article  of  what 
to  you  is  an  abstract  idea  ;  they  have,  ere  this,  sold  their 
social  greatness  and  also  their  blood-earned  freedom  to  be  the 
servants  of  foreign  kings.' 

'  You  never  were  in  Switzerland  ?  ' 

'  Yes — I  have  been  there  twice.' 

'  You  know  nothing  of  it.' 

'  I  do.' 

1  And  you  say  the  Swiss  are  mercenary,  as  a  parrot  says 
"  Poor  Poll,"  or  as  the  Belgians  here  say  the  English  are  not 
brave,  or  as  the  French  accuse  them  of  being  perfidious : 
there  is  no  justice  in  your  dictums.' 

'  There  is  truth.' 

'  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Hunsden,  you  are  a  more  unpractical 
man  than  I  am  an  unpractical  woman,  for  you  don't  acknow- 
ledge what  really  exists ;  you  want  to  annihilate  individual 
patriotism  and  national  greatness  as  an  atheist  would  anni- 
hilate God  and  his  own  soul,  by  denying  their  existence.' 

'  Where  are  you  flying  to  ?  You  are  off  at  a  tangent — I 
thought  we  were  talking  about  the  mercenary  nature  of  the 
Swiss.' 

'  We  were — and  if  you  proved  to  me  that  the  Swiss  are 
mercenary  to-morrow  (which  you  cannot  do)  I  should  love 
Switzerland  still.' 

'  You  would  be  mad,  then — mad  as  a  March  hare — to 
indulge  in  a  passion  for  millions  of  shiploads  of  soil,  timber, 
snow,  and  ice.' 


THE  PROFESSOR  245 

'  Not  so  mad  as  you  who  love  nothing.' 

'  There's  a  method  in  my  madness ;  there's  none  in 
yours.' 

1  Your  method  is  to  squeeze  the  sap  out  of  creation  and 
make  manure  of  the  refuse,  by  way  of  turning  it  to  what  you 
call  use.' 

'  You  cannot  reason  at  all,'  said  Hunsden  ;  '  there  is  no 
logic  in  you.' 

'  Better  to  be  without  logic  than  without  feeling,'  retorted 
Frances,  who  was  now  passing  backwards  and  forwards  from 
her  cupboard  to  the  table,  intent,  if  not  on  hospitable 
thoughts,  at  least  on  hospitable  deeds,  for  she  was  laying  the 
cloth,  and  putting  plates,  knives  and  forks  thereon. 

'  Is  that  a  hit  at  me,  Mademoiselle  ?  Do  you  suppose  I 
am  without  feeling  ?  ' 

'  I  suppose  you  are  always  interfering  with  your  own 
feelings,  and  those  of  other  people,  and  dogmatising  about 
the  irrationality  of  this,  that,  and  the  other  sentiment,  and 
then  ordering  it  to  be  suppressed  because  you  imagine  it  to 
be  inconsistent  with  logic.' 

'  I  do  right.' 

Frances  had  stepped  out  of  sight  into  a  sort  of  little 
pantry  ;  she  soon  reappeared. 

'  You  do  right  ?  Indeed,  no  !  You  are  much  mistaken 
if  you  think  so.  Just  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  get  to  the 
fire,  Mr.  Hunsden  ;  I  have  something  to  cook.'  (An  interval 
occupied  in  settling  a  casserole  on  the  fire  ;  then,  while  she 
stirred  its  contents  :)  '  Right !  as  if  it  were  right  to  crush  any 
pleasurable  sentiment  that  God  has  given  to  man,  especially 
any  sentiment  that,  like  patriotism,  spreads  man's  selfishness 
in  wider  circles  '  (fire  stirred,  dish  put  down  before  it). 

'  Were  you  born  in  Switzerland  ?  ' 

'  I  should  think  so,  or  else  why  should  I  call  it  my 
country  ?  ' 

'  And  where  did  you  get  your  English  features  and 
figure  ?  ' 

'  I  am    English,    too ;    half  the    blood   in    my   veins   is 


246  THE  PROFESSOK 

English ;  thus  I  have  a  right  to  a  double  power  of 
patriotism,  possessing  an  interest  in  two  noble,  free,  and 
fortunate  countries.' 

'  You  had  an  English  mother  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes  ;  and  you,  I  suppose,  had  a  mother  from  the 
moon  or  from  Utopia,  since  not  a  nation  in  Europe  has  a 
claim  on  your  interest  ? ' 

1  On  the  contrary,  I'm  a  universal  patriot,  if  you  could 
understand  me  rightly :  my  country  is  the  world.' 

1  Sympathies  so  widely  diffused  must  be  very  shallow : 
will  you  have  the  goodness  to  come  to  table  ?  Monsieur ' 
(to  me,  who  appeared  to  be  now  absorbed  in  reading  by 
moonlight) — '  Monsieur,  supper  is  served.' 

This  was  said  in  quite  a  different  voice  to  that  in  which 
she  had  been  bandying  phrases  with  Mr.  Hunsden — not  so 
short,  graver  and  softer. 

1  Frances,  what  do  you  mean  by  preparing  supper  ?  We 
had  no  intention  of  staying.' 

'  Ah,  Monsieur,  but  you  have  stayed,  and  supper  is 
prepared  ;  you  have  only  the  alternative  of  eating  it.' 

The  meal  was  a  foreign  one,  of  course  ;  it  consisted  in 
two  small  but  tasty  dishes  of  meat  prepared  with  skill 
and  served  with  nicety ;  a  salad  and  '  fromage  fra^ais ' 
completed  it.  The  business  of  eating  interposed  a  brief 
truce  between  the  belligerents,  but  no  sooner  was  supper 
disposed  of  than  they  were  at  it  again.  The  fresh  subject  of 
dispute  ran  on  the  spirit  of  religious  intolerance  which  Mr. 
Hunsden  affirmed  to  exist  strongly  in  Switzerland,  not- 
withstanding the  professed  attachment  of  the  Swiss  to 
freedom.  Here  Frances  had  greatly  the  worst  of  it,  not  only 
because  she  was  unskilled  to  argue,  but  because  her  own 
real  opinions  on  the  point  in  question  happened  to  coincide 
pretty  nearly  with  Mr.  Hunsden's,  and  she  only  contradicted 
him  out  of  opposition.  At  last  she  gave  in,  confessing  that 
she  thought  as  he  thought,  but  bidding  him  take  notice  that 
she  did  not  consider  herself  beaten. 

1  No  more  did  the  French  at  Waterloo,'  said  Hunsden, 


THE  PKOFESSOK  247 

'  There  is  no  comparison  between  the  cases,'  rejoined 
Frances  ;  '  mine  was  a  sham  fight.' 

'  Sham  or  real,  it's  up  with  you.' 

'  No ;  though  I  have  neither  logic  nor  wealth  of  words, 
yet  in  a  case  where  my  opinion  really  differed  from  yours,  I 
would  adhere  to  it  when  I  had  not  another  word  to  say  in  its 
defence  ;  you  should  be  baffled  by  dumb  determination.  You 
speak  of  Waterloo ;  your  Wellington  ought  to  have  been 
conquered  there,  according  to  Napoleon ;  but  he  persevered 
in  spite  of  the  laws  of  war,  and  was  victorious  in  defiance  of 
military  tactics.  I  would  do  as  he  did.' 

1  I'll  be  bound  for  it  you  would  ;  probably  you  have  some 
of  the  same  sort  of  stubborn  stuff  in  you.' 

'  I  should  be  sorry  if  I  had  not ;  he  and  Tell  were  brothers, 
and  I'd  scorn  the  Swiss,  man  or  woman,  who  had  none  of 
the  much  enduring  nature  of  our  heroic  William  in  his  soul.' 

'  If  Tell  was  like  Wellington,  he  was  an  ass.' 

1  Does  not  ass  mean  baitdet  ?  '  asked  Frances,  turning  to 
me. 

'  No,  no,'  replied  I,  '  it  means  an  esprit-fort ;  and  now,'  I 
continued,  as  I  saw  that  fresh  occasion  of  strife  was  brewing 
between  these  two,  '  it  is  high  time  to  go." 

Hunsden  rose. 

'  Good-by,'  said  he  to  Frances ;  '  I  shall  be  off  for  this 
glorious  England  to-morrow,  and  it  may  be  twelve  months 
or  more  before  I  come  to  Brussels  again  ;  whenever  I  do 
come  I'll  seek  you  out,  and  you  shall  see  if  I  don't  find  means 
to  make  you  fiercer  than  a  dragon.  You've  done  pretty  well 
this  evening,  but  next  interview  you  shall  challenge  me 
outright.  Meantime  you're  doomed  to  become  Mrs.  William 
Crimsworth,  I  suppose  ;  poor  young  lady  !  but  you  have  a 
spark  of  spirit ;  cherish  it,  and  give  the  Professor  the  full 
benefit  thereof.' 

'  Are  you  married,  Mr.  Hunsden  ? '  asked  Frances, 
suddenly. 

'  No.  I  should  have  thought  you  might  have  guessed  I 
was  a  Benedict  by  my  look.' 


248  THE  PfiOFESSOfl 

'  Well,  whenever  you  marry,  don't  take  a  wife  out  of 
Switzerland  ;  for  if  you  begin  blaspheming  Helvetia,  and 
cursing  the  cantons — above  all,  if  you  mention  the  word  ass  in 
the  same  breath  with  the  name  Tell  (for  ass  is  baudet,  I  know  ; 
though  Monsieur  is  pleased  to  translate  it  csprit-fort),  your 
mountain-maid  will  some  night  smother  her  Bretou-brcton- 
nant,  even  as  your  own  Shakspeare's  Othello  smothered 
Desdemona.' 

'  I  am  warned,'  said  Hunsden ;  '  and  so  are  you,  lad ' 
(nodding  to  me).  '  I  hope  yet  to  hear  of  a  travesty  of  the 
Moor  and  his  gentle  lady,  in  which  the  parts  shall  be  reversed 
according  to  the  plan  just  sketched— you,  however,  being  in 
my  nightcap.  Farewell,  Mademoiselle  ! ' 

He  bowed  on  her  hand,  absolutely  like  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  on  that  of  Harriet  Byron  ;  adding — '  Death  from 
such  fingers  would  not  be  without  charms.' 

'  Mon  Dieu  ! '  murmured  Frances,  opening  her  large  eyes 
and  lifting  her  distinctly  arched  brows  ;  '  c'est  qu'il  fait  des 
compliments !  je  ne  m'y  suis  pas  attendu.' 

She  smiled,  half  in  ire,  half  in  mirth,  curtsied  with 
foreign  grace,  and  so  they  parted. 

No  sooner  had  we  got  into  the  street  than  Hunsden 
collared  me. 

'  And  that  is  your  lace-mender  ?  '  said  he ;  '  and  you 
reckon  you  have  done  a  fine,  magnanimous  thing  in  offering 
to  marry  her  ?  You,  a  scion  of  Seacombe,  have  proved  your 
disdain  of  social  distinctions  by  taking  up  with  an  ouvriere  ! 
And  I  pitied  the  fellow,  thinking  his  feelings  had  misled  him, 
and  that  he  had  hurt  himself  by  contracting  a  low  match  !  ' 

'  Just  let  go  my  collar,  Hunsden.' 

On  the  contrary,  he  swayed  me  to  and  fro  ;  so  I  grappled 
him  round  the  waist.  It  was  dark  ;  the  street  lonely  and 
lampless.  We  had  then  a  tug  for  it ;  and  after  we  had  both 
rolled  on  the  pavement,  and  with  difficulty  picked  ourselves 
up,  we  agreed  to  walk  on  more  soberly. 

'Yes,  that's  my  lace-mender.'  said  I ;  'and  she  is  to  be 
mine  for  life-  God  willing.' 


THE  PROFESSOR  249 

1  God  is  not  willing — you  can't  suppose  it ;  what  business 
have  you  to  be  suited  so  well  with  a  partner  ?  and  she  treats 
you  with  a  sort  of  respect,  too,  and  says,  '  Monsieur,'  and 
modulates  her  tone  in  addressing  you,  actually,  as  if  you 
were  something  superior !  She  could  not  evince  more 
deference  to  such  a  one  as  I,  were  she  favoured  by  fortune  to 
the  supreme  extent  of  being  my  choice  instead  of  yours.' 

'  Hunsden,  you're  a  puppy.  But  you've  only  seen  the 
title-page  of  my  happiness  ;  you  don't  know  the  tale  that 
follows  ;  you  cannot  conceive  the  interest  and  sweet  variety 
and  thrilling  excitement  of  the  narrative.' 

Hunsden — speaking  low  and  deep,  for  we  had  now 
entered  a  busier  street — desired  me  to  hold  my  peace, 
threatening  to  do  something  dreadful  if  I  stimulated  his 
wrath  further  by  boasting.  I  laughed  till  my  sides  ached. 
We  soon  reached  his  hotel ;  before  he  entered  it,  he  said — 
1  Don't  be  vainglorious.  Your  lace-mender  is  too  good  for  you, 
but  not  good  enough  for  me  ;  neither  physically  nor  morally 
does  she  come  up  to  my  ideal  of  a  woman.  No ;  I  dream 
of  something  far  beyond  that  pale-faced,  excitable  little 
Helvetian  (by-the-by  she  has  infinitely  more  of  the  nervous, 
mobile  Parisienne  in  her  than  of  the  robust  "  Jungfrau  "). 
Your  Mdlle.  Henri  is  in  person  ch6tive,  in  mind  sans  caractere, 
compared  with  the  queen  of  my  visions.  You,  indeed, 
may  put  up  with  that  minois  chiffonn6 ;  but  when  I  marry 
I  must  have  straighter  and  more  harmonious  features,  to 
say  nothing  of  a  nobler  and  better  developed  shape  than 
that  perverse,  ill-thriven  child  can  boast.' 

1  Bribe  a  seraph  to  fetch  you  a  coal  of  fire  from  heaven, 
if  you  will,'  said  I,  '  and  with  it  kindle  life  in  the  tallest, 
fattest,  most  boneless,  fullest  blooded  of  Eubens'  painted 
women — leave  me  only  my  Alpine  Peri,  and  I'll  not  envy 
you.' 

With  a  simultaneous  movement,  each  turned  his  back  on 
the  other.  Neither  said  'God  bless  you;'  yet  on  the 
morrow  the  sea  was  to  roll  between  us. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  two  months  more  Frances  had  fulfilled  the  time  of 
mourning  for  her  aunt.  One  January  morning — the  first  of 
the  new-year  holidays — I  went  in  a  fiacre,  accompanied  only 
by  M.  Vandenhuten,  to  the  Eue  Notre  Dame  aux  Neiges, 
and  having  alighted  alone  and  walked  up-stairs,  I  found 
Frances  apparently  waiting  for  me,  dressed  in  a  style 
scarcely  appropriate  to  that  cold,  bright,  frosty  day.  Never 
till  now  had  I  seen  her  attired  in  any  other  than  black  or 
sad-coloured  stuff ;  and  there  she  stood  by  the  window,  clad 
all  in  white,  and  white  of  a  most  diaphanous  texture ;  her 
array  was  very  simple,  to  be  sure,  but  it  looked  imposing 
and  festal  because  it  was  so  clear,  full,  and  floating  ;  a  veil 
shadowed  her  head,  and  hung  below  her  knee  ;  a  little  wreath 
of  pink  flowers  fastened  it  to  her  thickly-tressed  Grecian 
plait,  and  thence  it  fell  softly  on  each  side  of  her  face. 
Singular  to  state,  she  was,  or  had  been  crying ;  when  I 
asked  her  if  she  were  ready,  she  said,  '  Yes,  Monsieur,'  with 
something  very  like  a  checked  sob  ;  and  when  I  took  a 
shawl,  which  lay  on  the  table,  and  folded  it  round  her,  not 
only  did  tear  after  tear  course  unbidden  down  her  cheek, 
but  she  shook  to  my  ministration  like  a  reed.  I  said  I  was 
sorry  to  see  her  in  such  low  spirits,  and  requested  to  be 
allowed  an  insight  into  the  origin  thereof.  She  only  said, 
'  It  was  impossible  to  help  it,'  and  then  voluntarily,  though 
hurriedly,  putting  her  hand  into  mine,  accompanied  me  out 
of  the  room,  and  ran  down-stairs  with  a  quick,  uncertain 
step,  like  one  who  was  eager  to  get  some  formidable  piece  of 


THE   PROFESSOR  251 

business  over.  I  put  her  into  the  fiacre.  M.  Vandanhuten 
received  her,  and  seated  her  beside  himself ;  we  drove  all 
together  to  the  Protestant  chapel,  went  through  a  certain 
service  in  the  Common  Prayer  Book,  and  she  and  I  came 
out  married.  M.  Vandenhuten  had  given  the  bride  away. 

We  took  no  bridal  trip ;  our  modesty,  screened  by  the 
peaceful  obscurity  of  our  station,  and  the  pleasant  isolation 
of  our  circumstances,  did  not  exact  that  additional  pre- 
caution. We  repaired  at  once  to  a  small  house  I  had  taken 
in  the  faubourg  nearest  to  that  part  of  the  city  where  the 
scene  of  our  avocations  lay. 

Three  or  four  hours  after  the  wedding  ceremony,  Frances, 
divested  of  her  bridal  snow,  and  attired  in  a  pretty  lilac  gown 
of  warmer  materials,  a  piquant  black  silk  apron,  and  a  lace 
collar  with  some  finishing  decoration  of  lilac  ribbon,  was 
kneeling  on  the  carpet  of  a  neatly-furnished  though  not 
spacious  parlour,  arranging  on  the  shelves  of  a  chiffonniere 
some  books  which  I  handed  to  her  from  the  table.  It  was 
snowing  fast  out  of  doors  ;  the  afternoon  had  turned  out 
wild  and  cold  ;  the  leaden  sky  seemed  full  of  drifts,  and  the 
street  was  already  ankle-deep  in  the  white  downfall.  Our 
fire  burned  bright,  our  new  habitation  looked  brilliantly 
clean  and  fresh,  the  furniture  was  all  arranged,  and  there 
were  but  some  articles  of  glass,  china,  books,  &c.,  to  put  in 
order.  Frances  found  in  this  business  occupation  till  tea- 
time,  and  then,  after  I  had  distinctly  instructed  her  how  to 
make  a  cup  of  tea  in  rational  English  style,  and  after  she 
had  got  over  the  dismay  occasioned  by  seeing  such  an 
extravagant  amount  of  material  put  into  the  pot,  she 
administered  to  me  a  proper  British  repast,  at  which  there 
wanted  neither  candles  nor  urn,  firelight  nor  comfort. 

Our  week's  holiday  glided  by,  and  we  readdressed  our- 
selves to  labour.  Both  my  wife  and  I  began  in  good  earnest 
with  the  notion  that  we  were  working  people,  destined  to 
earn  our  bread  by  exertion,  and  that  of  the  most  assiduous 
kind.  Our  days  were  thoroughly  occupied  ;  we  used  to  part 
every  morning  at  eight  o'clock,  and  not  meet  again  till 


252  THE   PROFESSOR 

five  P.M.  ;  but  into  what  sweet  rest  did  the  turmoil  of  each 
busy  day  decline  !  Looking  down  the  vista  of  memory,  I  see 
the  evenings  passed  in  that  little  parlour  like  a  long  string 
of  rubies  circling  the  dusk  brow  of  the  past.  Unvaried  were 
they  as  each  cut  gem,  and  like  each  gem  brilliant  and 
burning. 

A  year  and  a  half  passed.  One  morning  (it  was  a  f&te, 
and  we  had  the  day  to  ourselves)  Frances  said  to  me,  with  a 
suddenness  peculiar  to  her  when  she  had  been  thinking  long 
on  a  subject,  and  at  last,  having  come  to  a  conclusion, 
wished  to  test  its  soundness  by  the  touchstone  of  my  judg- 
ment :  '  I  don't  work  enough.' 

1  What  now  ?  '  demanded  I,  looking  up  from  my  coffee, 
which  I  had  been  deliberately  stirring  while  enjoying,  in 
anticipation,  a  walk  I  proposed  to  take  with  Frances,  that 
fine  summer  day  (it  was  June),  to  a  certain  farmhouse  in  the 
country,  where  we  were  to  dine.  '  What  now  ? '  and  I  saw 
at  once,  in  the  serious  ardour  of  her  face,  a  project  of  vital 
importance. 

'  I  am  not  satisfied,'  returned  she  :  '  you  are  now  earning 
eight  thousand  francs  a  year '  (it  was  true ;  my  efforts, 
punctuality,  the  fame  of  my  pupils'  progress,  the  publicity  of 
my  station,  had  so  far  helped  me  on),  '  while  I  am  still  at 
my  miserable  twelve  hundred  francs.  I  can  do  better,  and 
I  will.' 

'  You  work  as  long  and  as  diligently  as  I  do,  Frances.' 

'  Yes,  Monsieur,  but  I  am  not  working  in  the  right  way, 
and  I  am  convinced  of  it.' 

'  You  wish  to  change — you  have  a  plan  for  progress  in 
your  mind  ;  go  and  put  on  your  bonnet ;  and,  while  we  take 
our  walk,  you  shall  tell  me  of  it.' 

'  Yes,  Monsieur.' 

She  went — as  docile  as  a  well-trained  child  ;  she  was  a 
curious  mixture  of  tractability  and  firmness  :  I  sat  thinking 
about  her,  and  wondering  what  her  plan  could  be,  when  she 
re-entered. 

4  Monsieur,  I  have  given  Minnie  '  (our  bonne)  '  leave  to  go 


THE   PROFESSOR  253 

out  too,  as  it  is  so  very  fine  ;  so  will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
lock  the  door,  and  take  the  key  with  you  ?  ' 

'  Kiss  me,  Mrs.  Crimsworth,'  was  my  not  very  apposite 
reply  ;  but  she  looked  so  engaging  in  her  light  summer  dress 
and  little  cottage  bonnet,  and  her  manner  in  speaking  to  me 
was  then,  as  always,  so  unaffectedly  and  suavely  respectful, 
that  my  heart  expanded  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  a  kiss 
seemed  necessary  to  content  its  importunity. 

'  There,  Monsieur.' 

'  Why  do  you  always  call  me  "  Monsieur "  ?  Say 
William.' 

'  I  cannot  pronounce  your  W  ;  besides,  "  Monsieur " 
belongs  to  you ;  I  like  it  best.' 

Minnie  having  departed  in  clean  cap  and  smart  shawl, 
we,  too,  set  out,  leaving  the  house  solitary  and  silent — silent, 
at  least,  but  for  the  ticking  of  the  clock.  We  were  soon 
clear  of  Brussels ;  the  fields  received  us,  and  then  the  lanes, 
remote  from  carriage-resounding  chaussees.  Ere  long  we 
came  upon  a  nook,  so  rural,  green,  and  secluded,  it  might 
have  been  a  spot  in  some  pastoral  English  province  ;  a  bank 
of  short  and  mossy  grass,  under  a  hawthorn,  offered  a  seat 
too  tempting  to  be  declined ;  we  took  it,  and  when  we  had 
admired  and  examined  some  English-looking  wild-flowers 
growing  at  our  feet,  I  recalled  Frances'  attention  and  my 
own  to  the  topic  touched  on  at  breakfast. 

'  What  was  her  plan  ?  '  A  natural  one — the  next  step  to 
be  mounted  by  us,  or,  at  least,  by  her,  if  she  wanted  to  rise 
in  her  profession.  She  proposed  to  begin  a  school.  We 
already  had  the  means  for  commencing  on  a  careful  scale, 
having  lived  greatly  within  our  income.  We  possessed,  too, 
by  this  time,  an  extensive  and  eligible  connection,  in  the 
Sc'nse  advantageous  to  our  business ;  for,  though  our  circle  of 
visiting  acquaintance  continued  as  limited  as  ever,  we  were 
now  widely  known  in  schools  and  families  as  teachers. 
When  Frances  had  developed  her  plan,  she  intimated,  in 
some  closing  sentences,  her  hopes  for  the  future.  If  we  only 
Uad  good  health  and  tolerable  success,  we  might,  she  was. 


254  THE   PROFESSOR 

sure,  in  time  realise  an  independency ;  and  that,  perhaps, 
before  we  were  too  old  to  enjoy  it ;  then  both  she  and  I 
would  rest ;  and  what  was  to  hinder  us  from  going  to  live  in 
England  ?  England  was  still  her  Promised  Land. 

I  put  no  obstacle  in  her  way ;  raised  no  objection  ;  I  knew 
she  was  not  one  who  could  live  quiescent  and  inactive,  or 
even  comparatively  inactive.  Duties  she  must  have  to  fulfil, 
and  important  duties  ;  work  to  do — and  exciting,  absorbing, 
profitable  work ;  strong  faculties  stirred  in  her  frame,  and 
they  demanded  full  nourishment,  free  exercise  :  mine  was  not 
the  hand  ever  to  starve  or  cramp  them ;  no,  I  delighted  in 
offering  them  sustenance,  and  in  clearing  them  wider  space 
for  action. 

'  You  have  conceived  a  plan,  Frances,'  said  I,  '  and  a  good 
plan  ;  execute  it ;  you  have  my  free  consent,  and  wherever 
and  whenever  my  assistance  is  wanted,  ask,  and  you  shall 
have.' 

Frances*  eyes  thanked  me  almost  with  tears ;  just  a 
sparkle  or  two,  soon  brushed  away  ;  she  possessed  herself  of 
my  hand  too,  and  held  it  for  some  time  very  close  clasped  in 
both  her  own,  but  she  said  no  more  than  '  Thank  you, 
Monsieur.' 

We  passed  a  divine  day,  and  came  home  late,  lighted  by 
a  full  summer  moon. 

Ten  years  rushed  now  upon  me  with  dusty,  vibrating, 
unresting  wings ;  years  of  bustle,  action,  unslacked 
endeavour ;  years  in  which  I  and  my  wife,  having  launched 
ourselves  in  the  full  career  of  progress,  as  progress  whirls  on 
in  European  capitals,  scai'cely  knew  repose,  were  strangers  to 
amusement,  never  thought  of  indulgence,  and  yet,  as  our 
course  ran  side  by  side,  as  we  marched  hand  in  hand,  we 
neither  murmured,  repented,  nor  faltered.  Hope  indeed 
cheered  us  ;  health  kept  us  up ;  harmony  of  thought  and 
deed  smoothed  many  difficulties,  and  finally,  success 
bestowed  every  now  and  then  encouraging  reward  on 
diligence.  Our  school  became  one  of  the  most  popular  in 
Brussels,  and  as  by  degrees  we  raised  our  terms  and  elevated 


THE  PEOFESSOE  255 

our  system  of  education,  our  choice  of  pupils  grew  more 
select,  and  at  length  included  the  children  of  the  best 
families  in  Belgium.  We  had  too  an  excellent  connection  in 
England,  first  opened  by  the  unsolicited  recommendation  of 
Mr.  Hunsden,  who  having  been  over,  and  having  abused 
me  for  my  prosperity  in  set  terms,  went  back,  and  soon 

after  sent  a  leash  of  young shire  heiresses— his  cousins ; 

as  he  said,  '  to  be  polished  off  by  Mrs.  Crimsworth.' 

As  to  this  same  Mrs.  Crimsworth,  in  one  sense  she  was 
become  another  woman,  though  in  another  she  remained 
unchanged.  So  different  was  she  under  different  circum- 
stances, I  seemed  to  possess  two  wives.  The  faculties  of  her 
nature,  already  disclosed  when  I  married  her,  remained 
fresh  and  fair ;  but  other  faculties  shot  up  strong,  branched 
out  broad,  and  quite  altered  the  external  character  of  the 
plant.  Firmness,  activity,  and  enterprise  covered,  with 
grave  foliage,  poetic  feeling  and  fervour ;  but  these  flowers 
were  still  there,  preserved  pui'e  and  dewy  under  the  umbrage 
of  later  growth  and  hardier  nature  :  perhaps  I  only  in  the 
world  knew  the  secret  of  their  existence,  but  to  me  they  were 
ever  ready  to  yield  an  exquisite  fragrance  and  present  a 
beauty  as  chaste  as  radiant. 

In  the  daytime  my  house  and  establishment  were  con- 
ducted by  Madame  the  directress,  a  stately  and  elegant 
woman,  bearing  much  anxious  thought  on  her  large  brow  ; 
much  calculated  dignity  in  her  serious  mien  :  immediately 
after  breakfast  I  used  to  part  with  this  lady ;  I  went  to  my 
college,  she  to  her  schoolroom  ;  returning  for  an  hour  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  I  found  her  always  in  class,  intently 
occupied ;  silence,  industry,  observance,  attending  on  her 
presence.  When  not  actually  teaching,  she  was  overlooking 
and  guiding  by  eye  and  gesture  ;  she  then  appeared  vigilant 
and  solicitous.  When  communicating  instruction,  her  aspect 
was  more  animated ;  she  seemed  to  feel  a  certain  enjoyment 
in  the  occupation.  The  language  in  which  she  addressed 
her  pupils,  though  simple  and  unpretending,  was  never  trite 
or  dry  ;  she  did  not  speak  from  routine  formulas — she  made 


256  THE  PROFESSOR 

her  own  phrases  as  she  went  on,  and  very  nervous  and 
impressive  phrases  they  frequently  were ;  often,  when 
elucidating  favourite  points  of  history,  or  geography,  she 
would  wax  genuinely  eloquent  in  her  earnestness.  Her 
pupils,  or  at  least  the  elder  and  more  intelligent  amongst 
them,  recognised  well  the  language  of  a  superior  mind  ;  they 
felt  too,  and  some  of  them  received  the  impression  of  elevated 
sentiments  ;  there  was  little  fondling  between  mistress  and 
girls,  but  some  of  Frances'  pupils  in  time  learnt  to  love  her 
sincerely,  all  of  them  beheld  her  with  respect ;  her  general 
demeanour  towards  them  was  serious ;  sometimes  benignant 
when  they  pleased  her  with  their  progress  and  attention, 
always  scrupulously  refined  and  considerate.  In  cases 
where  reproof  or  punishment  was  called  for  she  was  usually 
forbearing  enough ;  but  if  any  took  advantage  of  that 
forbearance,  which  sometimes  happened,  a  sharp,  sudden  and 
lightning-like  seventy  taught  the  culprit  the  extent  of  the 
mistake  committed.  Sometimes  a  gleam  of  tenderness 
softened  her  eyes  and  manner,  but  this  was  rare ;  only  when 
a  pupil  was  sick,  or  when  it  pined  after  home,  or  in  the 
case  of  some  little  motherless  child,  or  of  one  much  poorer 
than  its  companions,  whose  scanty  wardrobe  and  mean 
appointments  brought  on  it  the  contempt  of  the  jewelled 
young  countesses  and  silk-clad  misses.  Over  such  feeble 
fledglings  the  directress  spread  a  wing  of  kindliest  protection  : 
it  was  to  their  bed-side  she  came  at  night  to  tuck  them 
warmly  in  ;  it  was  after  them  she  looked  in  winter  to  see 
that  they  always  had  a  comfortable  seat  by  the  stove ;  it  was 
they  who  by  turns  were  summoned  to  the  salon  to  receive 
some  little  dole  of  cake  or  fruit — to  sit  on  a  footstool  at  the 
fireside — to  enjoy  home  comforts,  and  almost  home  liberty, 
for  an  evening  together — to  be  spoken  to  gently  and  softly, 
comforted,  encouraged,  cherished — and  when  bedtime  came, 
dismissed  with  a  kiss  of  true  tenderness.  As  to  Julia  and 

Georgiana  G .daughters  of  an   English   baronet,  as  to 

Mdll<>.   Mathilde  de ,  heiress  of  a  Belgian  count,  and 

sundry  other  children  of  patrician  race,  the  directress  was 


THE  PKOFESSOB  257 

careful  of  them  as  of  the  others,  anxious  for  their  progress, 
as  for  that  of  the  rest — but  it  never  seemed  to  enter  her  head 
to  distinguish  them  by  a  mark  of  preference ;  one  girl  of 
noble  blood  she  loved  dearly — a  young  Irish  baroness— Lady 
Catherine  —  — ;  but  it  was  for  her  enthusiastic  heart  and 
clever  head,  for  her  generosity  and  her  genius,  the  title  and 
rank  went  for  nothing. 

My  afternoons  were  spent  also  in  college,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  an  hour  that  my  wife  daily  exacted  of  me  for  her 
establishment,  and  with  which  she  would  not  dispense.  She 
said  that  I  must  spend  that  time  amongst  her  pupils  to 
learn  their  characters,  to  be  au  courant  with  everything  that 
was  passing  in  the  house,  to  become  interested  in  what 
interested  her,  to  be  able  to  give  her  my  opinion  on  knotty 
points  when  she  required  it,  and  this  she  did  constantly, 
never  allowing  my  interest  in  the  pupils  to  fall  asleep,  and 
never  making  any  change  of  importance  without  my 
cognizance  and  consent.  She  delighted  to  sit  by  me  when  I 
gave  my  lessons  (lessons  in  literature),  her  hands  folded  on 
her  knee,  the  most  fixedly  attentive  of  any  present.  She 
rarely  addressed  me  in  class  ;  when  she  did,  it  was  with  an 
air  of  marked  deference  ;  it  was  her  pleasure,  her  joy  to  make 
me  still  the  master  in  all  things. 

At  six  o'clock  P.M.  my  daily  labours  ceased.  I  then  came 
home,  for  my  home  was  my  heaven  ;  ever  at  that  hour,  as  I 
entered  our  private  sitting-room,  the  lady-directress  vanished 
from  before  my  eyes,  and  Frances  Henri,  my  own  little 
lace-mender,  was  magically  restored  to  my  arms ;  much 
disappointed  she  would  have  been  if  her  master  had  not  been 
as  constant  to  the  tryste  as  herself,  and  if  his  truthful 
kiss  had  not  been  prompt  to  answer  her  soft,  '  Bon  soil1, 
Monsieur.' 

Talk  French  to  me  she  would,  and  many  a  punishment 
she  has  had  for  her  wilfulness.  I  fear  the  choice  of  chastise- 
ment must  have  been  injudicious,  for  instead  of  correcting 
the  fault,  it  seemed  to  encourage  its  renewal.  Our  evenings 
were  our  own  ;  that  recreation  was  necessary  to  refresh  our 


258  THE  PROFESSOR 

strength  for  the  due  discharge  of  our  duties  ;  sometimes  we 
spent  them  all  in  conversation,  and  my  young  Genevese, 
now  that  she  was  thoroughly  accustomed  to  her  English 
professor,  now  that  she  loved  him  too  absolutely  to  fear 
him  much,  reposed  in  him  a  confidence  so  unlimited  that 
topics  of  conversation  could  no  more  be  wanting  with  him 
than  subjects  for  communion  with  her  own  heart.  In  those 
moments,  happy  as  a  bird  with  its  mate,  she  would  show  me 
what  she  had  of  vivacity,  of  mirth,  of  originality  in  her  well- 
dowered  nature.  She  would  show,  too,  some  stores  of 
raillery,  of  '  malice,'  and  would  vex,  tease,  pique  me  some- 
times about  what  she  called  my  '  bizarreries  anglaises,'  my 
'  caprices  iusulaires,'  with  a  wild  and  witty  wickedness  that 
made  a  perfect  white  demon  of  her  while  it  lasted.  This  was 
rare,  however,  and  the  elfish  freak  was  always  short :  some- 
times when  driven  a  little  hard  in  the  war  of  words — for  her 
tongue  did  ample  justice  to  the  pith,  the  point,  the  delicacy 
of  her  native  French,  in  which  language  she  always  attacked 
me — I  used  to  turn  upon  her  with  my  old  decision,  and 
arrest  bodily  the  sprite  that  teased  me.  Vain  idea !  no 
sooner  had  I  grasped  hand  or  arm  than  the  elf  was  gone ; 
the  provocative  smile  quenched  in  the  expressive  brown  eyes, 
and  a  ray  of  gentle  homage  shone  under  the  lids  in  its 
place.  I  had  seized  a  mere  vexing  fairy,  and  found  a 
submissive  and  supplicating  little  mortal  woman  in  my 
arms.  Then  I  made  her  get  a  book,  and  read  English  to  me 
for  an  hour  by  way  of  penance.  I  frequently  dosed  her  with 
Wordsworth  in  this  way,  and  Wordsworth  steadied  her 
soon  ;  she  had  a  difficulty  in  comprehending  his  deep,  serene, 
and  sober  mind  ;  his  language,  too,  was  not  facile  to  her ; 
she  had  to  ask  questions,  to  sue  for  explanations,  to  be 
like  a  child  and  a  novice,  and  to  acknowledge  me  as  her 
senior  and  director.  Her  instinct  instantly  penetrated  and 
possessed  the  meaning  of  more  ardent  and  imaginative 
writers-  Byron  excited  her,  Scott  she  loved  ;  Wordsworth 
only  she  puzzled  at,  wondered  over,  and  hesitated  to 
pronounce  an  opinion  upon. 


THE  PROFESSOR  259 

But  whether  she  read  to  me,  or  talked  with  me  ;  whether 
she  teased  me  in  French,  or  entreated  me  in  English ; 
whether  she  jested  with  wit,  or  inquired  with  deference ; 
narrated  with  interest,  or  listened  with  attention  ;  whether 
she  smiled  at  me  or  on  me,  always  at  nine  o'clock  I  was  left — 
abandoned.  She  would  extricate  herself  from  my  arms,  quit 
my  side,  take  her  lamp,  and  be  gone.  Her  mission  was  up- 
stairs ;  I  have  followed  her  sometimes  and  watched  her. 
First  she  opened  the  door  of  the  dortoir  (the  pupils'  chamber), 
noiselessly  she  glided  up  the  long  room  between  the  two  rows 
of  white  beds,  surveyed  all  the  sleepers  ;  if  any  were  wakeful 
especially  if  any  were  sad,  spoke  to  them  and  soothed  them  ; 
stood  some  minutes  to  ascertain  that  all  was  safe  and  tranquil ; 
trimmed  the  watch-light  which  burned  in  the  apartment  all 
night,  then  withdrew,  closing  the  door  behind  her  without 
sound.  Thence  she  glided  to  our  own  chamber ;  it  had  a 
little  cabinet  within  ;  this  she  sought ;  there,  too,  appeared  a 
bed,  but  one,  and  that  a  very  small  one  ;  her  face  (the  night 
I  followed  and  observed  her)  changed  as  she  approached  this 
tiny  couch  ;  from  grave  it  warmed  to  earnest ;  she  shaded 
with  one  hand  the  lamp  she  held  in  the  other  ;  she  bent  above 
the  pillow  and  hung  over  a  child  asleep  ;  its  slumber  (that 
evening  at  least,  and  usually,  I  believe)  was  sound  and  calm  ; 
no  tear  wet  its  dark  eyelashes ;  no  fever  heated  its  round 
cheek ;  no  ill  dream  discomposed  its  budding  features. 
Frances  gazed,  she  did  not  smile,  and  yet  the  deepest  delight 
filled,  flushed  her  face ;  feeling,  pleasurable,  powerful, 
worked  in  her  whole  frame,  which  still  was  motionless.  I 
saw,  indeed,  her  heart  heave,  her  lips  were  a  little  apart,  her 
breathing  grew  somewhat  hurried  ;  the  child  smiled  ;  then  at 
last  the  mother  smiled  too,  and  said  in  a  low  soliloquy, '  God 
bless  my  little  son  !  '  She  stooped  closer  over  him,  breathed 
the  softest  of  kisses  on  his  brow,  covered  his  minute  hand  with 
hers,  and  at  last  started  up  and  came  away.  I  regained  the 
parlour  before  her.  Entering  it  two  minutes  later  she  said 
quietly  as  she  put  down  her  extinguished  lamp — '  Victor  rests 
well :  he  smiled  in  his  sleep  ;  he  has  your  smile,  Monsieur.' 


260  THE  PROFESSOR 

The  said  Victor  was  of  course  her  own  boy,  born  in  the 
third  year  of  our  marriage  :  his  Christian  name  had  been 
given  him  in  honour  of  M.  Vandenhuten,  who  continued 
always  our  trusty  and  well -beloved  friend. 

Frances  was  then  a  good  and  dear  wife  to  me,  because  I 
was  to  her  a  good,  just,  and  faithful  husband.  What  she 
would  have  been  had  she  married  a  harsh,  envious,  careless 
man — a  profligate,  a  prodigal,  a  drunkard,  or  a  tyrant — is 
another  question,  and  one  which  I  once  propounded  to  her. 
Her  answer,  given  after  some  reflection,  was — '  I  should  have 
tried  to  endure  the  evil  or  cure  it  for  awhile ;  and  when  I 
found  it  intolerable  and  incurable,  I  should  have  left  my 
torturer  suddenly  and  silently.' 

'  And  if  law  or  might  had  forced  you  back  again  ?  ' 

'  What,  to  a  drunkard,  a  profligate,  a  selfish  spendthrift, 
an  unjust  fool  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  I  would  have  gone  back  ;  again  assured  myself  whether 
or  not  his  vice  and  my  misery  were  capable  of  remedy  ;  and 
if  not,  have  left  him  again.' 

'  And  if  again  forced  to  return,  and  compelled  to  abide  ? ' 

1 1  don't  know,'  she  said,  hastily.  '  Why  do  you  ask  me, 
Monsieur  ? ' 

I  would  have  an  answer,  because  I  saw  a  strange  kind  of 
spirit  in  her  eye,  whose  voice  I  determined  to  waken. 

'  Monsieur,  if  a  wife's  nature  loathes  that  of  the  man  she 
is  wedded  to,  marriage  must  be  slavery.  Against  slavery  all 
right  thinkers  revolt,  and  though  torture  be  the  price  of 
resistance,  torture  must  be  dared :  though  the  only  road  to 
reedom  lie  through  the  gates  of  death,  those  gates  must  be 
passed  ;  for  freedom  is  indispensable.  Then,  Monsieur,  I 
would  resist  as  far  as  my  strength  permitted  ;  when  that 
strength  failed  I  should  be  sure  of  a  refuge.  Death  would 
certainly  screen  me  both  from  bad  laws  and  their  conse- 
quences.' 

'  Voluntary  death,  Frances?  ' 

'  No,  Monsieur.     I'd  have  courage  to  live  out  every  throe 


THE  PKOFESSOfc  261 

of  anguish  fate  assigned  me,  and  principle  to  contend  for 
justice  and  liberty  to  the  last.' 

I  see  you  would  have  made  no  patient  Grizzel.  And 
now,  supposing  Fate  had  merely  assigned  you  the  lot 
of  an  old  maid,  what  then  ?  How  would  you  have  liked 
celibacy  ? ' 

'  Not  much,  certainly.  An  old  maid's  life  must  doubtless 
be  void  and  vapid — her  heart  strained  and  empty.  Had  I 
been  an  old  maid  I  should  have  spent  existence  in  efforts  to 
fill  the  void  and  ease  the  aching.  I  should  have  probably 
failed,  and  died  weary  and  disappointed,  despised  and  of  no 
account,  like  other  single  women.  But  I'm  not  an  old 
maid,'  she  added  quickly.  '  I  should  have  been,  though,  but 
for  my  master.  I  should  never  have  suited  any  man  but 
Professor  Crimsworth — no  other  gentleman,  French,  English, 
or  Belgian,  would  have  thought  me  amiable  or  handsome ; 
and  I  doubt  whether  I  should  have  cared  for  the  approbation 
of  many  others,  if  I  could  have  obtained  it.  Now,  I  have 
been  Professor  Crimsworth's  wife  eight  years,  and  what  is 

he   in   my   eyes  ?     Is   he   honourable,  beloved ? '     She 

stopped,  her  voice  was  cut  off,  her  eyes  suddenly  suffused. 
She  and  I  were  standing  side  by  side ;  she  threw  her  arms 
round  me,  and  strained  me  to  her  heart  with  passionate 
earnestness :  the  energy  of  her  whole  being  glowed  in  her 
dark  and  then  dilated  eye,  and  crimsoned  her  animated 
cheek  :  her  look  and  movement  were  like  inspiration  ;  in  one 
there  was  such  a  flash,  in  the  other  such  a  power.  Half-an- 
hour  afterwards,  when  she  had  become  calm,  I  asked  where 
all  that  wild  vigour  was  gone  which  had  transformed  her 
erewhile  and  made  her  glance  so  thrilling  and  ardent — her 
action  so  rapid  and  strong.  She  looked  down,  smiling 
softly  and  passively: — 'I  cannot  tell  where  it  is  gone, 
Monsieur,'  said  she  ;  '  but  I  know  that,  whenever  it  is  wanted, 
it  will  come  back  again.' 

Behold  us  now  at  the  close  of  the  ten  years,  and  we  have 
realised  an  independency.  The  rapidity  with  which  we 
attained  this  end  had  its  origin  in  three  reasons : — Firstly, 


262  THE  PROFESSOK 

we  worked  so  hard  for  it ;  secondly,  we  had  no  incumbrances 
to  delay  success ;  thirdly,  as  soon  as  we  had  capital  to  invest, 
two  well-skilled  counsellors,  one  in  Belgium,  one  in  England, 
viz.,  Vandenhuten  and  Hunsden,  gave  us  each  a  word  of 
advice  as  to  the  sort  of  investment  to  be  chosen.  The 
suggestion  made  was  judicious ;  and,  being  promptly  acted 
on,  the  result  proved  gainful — I  need  not  say  how  gainful ; 
I  communicated  details  to  Messrs.  Vandenhuten  and 
Hunsden  ;  nobody  else  can  be  interested  in  hearing  them. 

Accounts  being  wound  up,  and  our  professional  con- 
nection disposed  of,  we  both  agreed  that,  as  mammon  was 
not  our  master,  nor  his  service  that  in  which  we  desired  to 
spend  our  lives ;  as  our  desires  were  temperate,  and  our 
habits  unostentatious,  wre  had  now  abundance  to  live  on— 
abundance  to  leave  our  boy ;  and  should  besides  always 
have  a  balance  on  hand,  which,  properly  managed  by  right 
sympathy  and  unselfish  activity,  might  help  philanthropy 
in  her  enterprises,  and  put  solace  into  the  hand  of 
charity. 

To  England  we  now  resolved  to  take  wing ;  we  arrived 
there  safely  ;  Frances  realised  the  dream  of  her  lifetime. 
We  spent  a  whole  summer  and  autumn  in  travelling  from 
end  to  end  of  the  British  islands,  and  afterwards  passed  a 
winter  in  London.  Then  we  thought  it  high  time  to  fix  our 
residence.  My  heart  yearned  towards  my  native  county 

of shire ;  and  it  is  in  -  — shire  I  now  live ;  it  is  in  the 

library  of  my  own  home  I  am  now  writing.  That  home 
lies  amid  a  sequestered  and  rather  hilly  region,  thirty  miles 

removed  from  X ;  a  region  whose  verdure  the  smoke  of 

mills  has  not  yet  sullied,  whose  waters  still  run  pure,  whose 
swells  of  moorland  preserve  in  some  ferny  glens  that  lie 
between  them  the  very  primal  wildness  of  nature,  her  moss, 
her  bracken,  her  bluebells,  her  scents  of  reed  and  heather, 
her  free  and  fresh  breezes.  My  house  is  a  picturesque  and 
not  too  spacious  dwelling,  with  low  and  long  windows,  a 
trellised  and  leaf-veiled  porch  over  the  front  door,  just  now, 
on  this  summer  evening,  looking  like  an  arch  of  roses  and 


DAISY    T.ANF. 


THE  PEOFESSOR  263 

ivy.  The  garden  is  chiefly  laid  out  in  lawn,  formed  of  the 
sod  of  the  hills,  with  herbage  short  and  soft  as  moss,  full  of 
its  own  peculiar  flowers,  tiny  and  starlike,  imbedded  in  the 
minute  embroidery  of  their  fine  foliage.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  sloping  garden  there  is  a  wicket,  which  opens  upon  a 
lane  as  green  as  the  lawn,  very  long,  shady,  and  little 
frequented;  on  the  turf  of  this  lane  generally  appear  the 
first  daisies  of  spring — whence  its  name — Daisy  Lane ; 
serving  also  as  a  distinction  to  the  house. 

It  terminates  (the  lane  I  mean)  in  a  valley  full  of  wood ; 
which  wood — chiefly  oak  and  beech — spreads  shadowy 
about  the  vicinage  of  a  very  old  mansion,  one  of  the 
Elizabethan  structures,  much  larger,  as  well  as  more  antique 
than  Daisy  Lane,  the  property  and  residence  of  an  indi- 
vidual familiar  both  to  me  and  to  the  reader.  Yes,  in 
Hunsden  Wood — for  so  are  those  glades  and  that  grey 
building,  with  many  gables  and  more  chimneys,  named — 
abides  Yorke  Hunsden,  still  unmarried ;  never,  I  suppose, 
having  yet  found  his  ideal,  though  I  know  at  least  a  score  of 
young  ladies  within  a  circuit  of  forty  miles  who  would  be 
willing  to  assist  him  in  the  search. 

The  estate  fell  to  him  by  the  death  of  his  father,  five 
years  since  ;  he  has  given  up  trade,  after  having  made  by  it 
sufficient  to  pay  off  some  incumbrances  by  which  the  family 
heritage  was  burdened.  I  say  he  abides  here,  but  I  do  not 
think  he  is  resident  above  five  months  out  of  the  twelve ;  he 
wanders  from  land  to  land,  and  spends  some  part  of  each 
winter  in  town  :  he  frequently  brings  visitors  with  him  when 

he  comes  to shire,  and  these  visitors  are  often  foreigners ; 

sometimes  he  has  a  German  metaphysician,  sometimes  a 
French  savant ;  he  had  once  a  dissatisfied  and  savage- 
looking  Italian,  who  neither  sang  nor  played,  and  of 
whom  Frances  affirmed  that  he  had  'tout  1'air  d'un  con- 
spirateur.' 

What  English  guests  Hunsden  invites  are  all  either  men 
of  Birmingham  or  Manchester — hard  men,  seemingly  knit 
up  in  one  thought,  whose  talk  is  of  free  trade.  The  foreign 


264  THE  PROFESSOR 

visitors,  too,  are  politicians ;  they  take  a  wider  theme — 
European  progress — the  spread  of  liberal  sentiments  over 
the  Continent ;  on  their  mental  tablets  the  names  of  Russia, 
Austria,  and  the  Pope,  are  inscribed  in  red  ink.  I  have 
heard  some  of  them  talk  vigorous  sense — yea,  I  have  been 
present  at  polyglot  discussions  in  the  old,  oak-lined  dining- 
room  at  Hunsden  Wood,  where  a  singular  insight  was 
given  of  the  sentiments  entertained  by  resolute  minds 
respecting  old  northern  despotisms,  and  old  southern 
superstitions :  also,  I  have  heard  much  twaddle,  enounced 
chiefly  in  French  and  Deutsch,  but  let  that  pass.  Hunsden 
himself  tolerated  the  drivelling  theorists ;  with  the  practical 
men  he  seemed  leagued  hand  and  heart. 

When  Hunsden  is  staying  alone  at  the  Wood  (which 
seldom  happens)  he  generally  finds  his  way  two  or  three 
times  a  week  to  Daisy  Lane.  He  has  a  philanthropic 
motive  for  coming  to  smoke  his  cigar  in  our  porch  on 
summer  evenings ;  he  says  he  does  it  to  kill  the  earwigs 
amongst  the  roses,  with  which  insects,  but  for  his  benevolent 
fumigations,  he  intimates  we  should  certainly  be  overrun. 
On  wet  days,  too,  we  are  almost  sure  to  see  him ;  according 
to  him,  it  gets  on  time  to  work  me  into  lunacy  by  treading 
on  my  mental  corns,  or  to  force  from  Mrs.  Crimsworth  reve- 
lations of  the  dragon  within  her,  by  insulting  the  memory  of 
Hofer  and  Tell. 

We  also  go  frequently  to  Hunsden  Wood,  and  both  I 
and  Frances  relish  a  visit  there  highly.  If  there  are  other 
guests,  their  characters  are  an  interesting  study  ;  their  con- 
versation is  exciting  and  strange  ;  the  absence  of  all  local 
narrowness  both  in  the  host  and  his  chosen  society  gives  a 
metropolitan,  almost  a  cosmopolitan  freedom  and  largeness 
to  the  talk.  Hunsden  himself  is  a  polite  man  in  his  own 
house :  he  has,  when  he  chooses  to  employ  it,  an  inexhaust- 
ible power  of  entertaining  guests  ;  his  very  mansion  too  is 
interesting,  the  rooms  looked  storied,  the  passages  legendary, 
the  low-cuilt-'d  chambers,  with  their  long  rows  of  diamond- 
puned  lattices,  have  an  old-world,  haunted  air :  in  his 


THE  PROFESSOR  265 

travels  he  has  collected  stores  of  articles  of  vertu,  which  are 
well  and  tastefully  disposed  in  his  panelled  or  tapestried 
rooms :  I  have  seen  there  one  or  two  pictures  and  one  or 
two  pieces  of  statuary  which  many  an  aristocrat  connoisseur 
might  have  envied. 

When  I  and  Frances  have  dined  and  spent  an  evening 
with  Hunsden,  he  often  walks  home  with  us.  His  wood  is 
large,  and  some  of  the  timber  is  old  and  of  huge  growth. 
There  are  winding  ways  in  it  which,  pursued  through  glade 
and  brake,  make  the  walk  back  to  Daisy  Lane  a  somewhat 
long  one.  Many  a  time,  when  we  have  had  the  benefit  of  a 
full  moon,  and  when  the  night  has  been  mild  and  balmy, 
when,  moreover,  a  certain  nightingale  has  been  singing,  and 
a  certain  stream,  hid  in  alders,  has  lent  the  song  a  soft 
accompaniment,  the  remote  church-bell  of  the  one  hamlet  in 
a  district  of  ten  miles  has  tolled  midnight  ere  the  lord  of 
the  wood  left  us  at  our  porch.  Free-flowing  was  his  talk  at 
such  hours,  and  far  more  quiet  and  gentle  than  in  the  day- 
time and  before  numbers.  He  would  then  forget  politics 
and  discussion,  and  would  dwell  on  the  past  times  of  his 
house,  on  his  family  history,  on  himself  and  his  own  feelings 
— subjects  each  and  all  invested  with  a  peculiar  zest,  for 
they  were  each  and  all  unique.  One  glorious  night  in  June, 
after  I  had  been  taunting  him  about  his  ideal  bride  and 
asking  him  when  she  would  come  and  graft  her  foreign 
beauty  on  the  old  Hunsden  oak,  he  answered  suddenly — 
'  You  call  her  ideal ;  but  see,  here  is  her  shadow  ;  and  there 
cannot  be  a  shadow  without  a  substance.' 

He  had  led  us  from  the  depth  of  the  '  winding  way  '  into 
a  glade  from  whence  the  beeches  withdrew,  leaving  it  open 
to  the  sky;  an  unclouded  moon  poured  her  light  into 
this  glade,  and  Hunsden  held  out  under  her  beam  an  ivory 
miniature. 

Frances,  with  eagerness,  examined  it  first ;  then  she  gave 
it  to  me — still,  however,  pushing  her  little  face  close  to  mine, 
and  seeking  in  my  eyes  what  I  thought  of  the  portrait.  I 
thought  it  represented  a  very  handsome  and  very  individual- 


266  THE  PROFESSOR 

/ 

looking  female  face,  with,  as  he  had  once  said,  '  straight  and 
harmonious  features.'  It  was  dark ;  the  hair,  raven -black, 
swept  not  only  from  the  brow,  but  from  the  temples — 
seemed  thrust  away  carelessly,  as  if  such  beauty  dispensed 
with,  nay,  despised  arrangement.  The  Italian  eye  looked 
straight  into  you,  and  an  independent,  determined  eye  it  was : 
the  mouth  was  as  firm  as  fine  ;  the  chin  ditto.  On  the  back 
of  the  miniature  was  gilded  '  Lucia.' 

'  That  is  a  real  head,"  was  my  conclusion. 

Hunsden  smiled. 

'  I  think  so,'  he  replied.     '  All  was  real  in  Lucia.' 

'  And  she  was  somebody  you  would  have  liked  to  marry 
— but  could  not  ? ' 

1 1  should  certainly  have  liked  to  marry  her,  and  that  I 
have  not  done  so  is  a  proof  that  I  could  not.' 

He  repossessed  himself  of  the  miniature,  now  again  in 
Frances'  hand,  and  put  it  away. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  '  he  asked  of  my  wife,  as  he 
buttoned  his  coat  over  it. 

'  I  am  sure  Lucia  once  wore  chains  and  broke  them,'  was 
the  strange  answer.  'I  do  not  mean  matrimonial  chains,' 
she  added,  correcting  herself,  as  if  she  feared  mis-interpreta- 
tion, '  but  social  chains  of  some  sort.  The  face  is  that  of  one 
who  has  made  an  effort,  and  a  successful  and  triumphant 
effort,  to  wrest  some  vigorous  and  valued  faculty  from 
insupportable  constraint ;  and  when  Lucia's  faculty  got  free, 
I  am  certain  it  spread  wide  pinions  and  carried  her  higher 
than — '  she  hesitated. 

1  Than  what  ?  '  demanded  Hunsden. 

'  Than  "  les  convenances  "  permitted  you  to  follow.' 

'  I  think  you  grow  spiteful — impertinent.' 

'  Lucia  has  trodden  the  stage,'  continued  Frances.  '  You 
never  seriously  thought  of  marrying  her ;  you  admired  her 
originality,  her  fearlessness,  her  energy  of  body  and  mind ; 
you  delighted  in  her  talent,  whatever  that  was,  whether  song, 
dance,  or  dramatic  representation ;  you  worshipped  her 
beauty,  which  was  of  the  sort  after  your  own  heart :  but  I 


THE   PROFESSOB  267 

am  sure  she  filled  a  sphere  from  whence  you  would  never 
have  thought  of  taking  a  wife.' 

'  Ingenious/  remarked  Hunsden ;  '  whether  true  or  not 
is  another  question.  Meantime,  don't  you  feel  your  little 
lamp  of  a  spirit  wax  very  pale  beside  such  a  girandole  as 
Lucia's  ? ' 

•  Yes.' 

'Candid,  at  least;  and  the  Professor  will  soon  be 
dissatisfied  with  the  dim  light  you  give  ?  ' 

1  Will  you,  Monsieur  ?  ' 

'  My  sight  was  always  too  weak  to  endure  a  blaze, 
Frances,'  and  we  had  now  reached  the  wicket. 

I  said,  a  few  pages  back,  that  this  is  a  sweet  summer 
evening ;  it  is — there  has  been  a  series  of  lovely  days,  and 
this  is  the  loveliest ;  the  hay  is  just  carried  from  my  fields, 
its  perfume  still  lingers  in  the  air.  Frances  proposed  to  me, 
an  hour  or  two  since,  to  take  tea  out  on  the  lawn ;  I  see 
the  round  table,  loaded  with  china,  placed  under  a  certain 
beech  ;  Hunsden  is  expected — nay,  I  hear  he  is  come — there 
is  his  voice,  laying  down  the  law  on  some  point  with 
authority;  that  of  Frances  replies;  she  opposes  him  of 
course.  They  are  disputing  about  Victor,  of  whom  Hunsden 
affirms  that  his  mother  is  making  a  milksop.  Mrs. 
Crimsworth  retaliates  : — '  Better  a  thousand  times  he  should 
be  a  milksop  than  what  he,  Hunsden,  calls  "  a  fine  lad  ;  " 
and  moreover  she  says  that  if  Hunsden  were  to  become  a 
fixture  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  were  not  a  mere  comet, 
coming  and  going,  no  one  knows  how,  when,  where,  or  why, 
'  she  should  be  quite  uneasy  till  she  had  got  Victor  away  to  a 
school  at  least  a  hundred  miles  off ;  for  that  with  his  mutin- 
ous maxims  and  unpractical  dogmas,  he  would  ruin  a  score 
of  children.' 

I  have  a  word  to  say  of  Victor  ere  I  shut  this  manuscript 
in  my  desk — but  it  must  be  a  brief  one,  for  I  hear  the  tinkle 
of  silver  on  porcelain. 

Victor  is  as  little  of  a  pretty  child  as  I  am  of  a  handsome 
man,  or  his  mother  of  a  fine  woman ;  he  is  pale  and  spare, 


268  THE  PBOFESSOB 

with  large  eyes,  as  dark  as  those  of  Frances,  and  as  deeply 
set  as  mine.  His  shape  is  symmetrical  enough,  but  slight ; 
his  health  is  good.  I  never  saw  a  child  smile  less  than  he 
does,  nor  one  who  knits  such  a  formidable  brow  when  sitting 
over  a  book  that  interests  him,  or  while  listening  to  tales  of 
adventure,  peril,  or  wonder,  narrated  by  his  mother,  Hunsden, 
or  myself.  But  though  still,  he  is  not  unhappy — though 
serious,  not  morose ;  he  has  a  susceptibility  to  pleasurable 
sensations  almost  too  keen,  for  it  amounts  to  enthusiasm. 
He  learned  to  read  in  the  old-fashioned  way  out  of  a  spelling- 
book  at  his  mother's  knee,  and  as  he  got  on  without  driving 
by  that  method,  she  thought  it  unnecessary  to  buy  him  ivory 
letters,  or  to  try  any  of  the  other  inducements  to  learning 
now  deemed  indispensable.  When  he  could  read,  he  became 
a  glutton  of  books,  and  is  so  still.  His  toys  have  been  few, 
and  he  has  never  wanted  more.  For  those  he  possesses  he 
seems  to  have  contracted  a  partiality  amounting  to  affection  ; 
this  feeling,  directed  towards  one  or  two  living  animals  of 
the  house,  strengthens  almost  to  a  passion. 

Mr.  Hunsden  gave  him  a  mastiff  cub,  which  he  called 
Yorke,  after  the  donor;  it  grew  to  a  superb  dog,  whose 
fierceness,  however,  was  much  modified  by  the  companion- 
ship and  caresses  of  its  young  master.  He  would  go 
nowhere,  do  nothing  without  Yorke ;  Yorke  lay  at  his  feet 
while  he  learned  his  lessons,  played  with  him  in  the  garden, 
walked  with  him  in  the  lane  and  wood,  sat  near  his  chair  at 
meals,  was  fed  always  by  his  own  hand,  was  the  first  thing 
he  sought  in  the  morning,  the  last  he  left  at  night.  Yorke 

accompanied  Mr.    Hunsden   one   day   to   X ,   and   was 

bitten  in  the  street  by  a  dog  in  a  rabid  state.  As  soon  as 
Hunsden  had  brought  him  home,  and  had  informed  me  of 
the  circumstance,  I  went  into  the  yard  and  shot  him  where 
he  lay  licking  his  wound  :  he  was  dead  in  an  instant ;  he 
had  not  seen  me  level  the  gun  ;  I  stood  behind  him.  I  had 
scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  house,  when  my  ear  was 
struck  with  sounds  of  anguish  ;  I  repaired  to  the  yard  once 
more,  for  they  proceeded  thence.  Victor  was  kneeling 


THE  PBOFESSOR 

beside  his  dead  mastiff,  bent  over  it,  embracing  its  bull- 
like  neck,  and  lost  in  a  passion  of  the  wildest  woe:  he 
saw  me. 

4  Oh,  papa,  I'll  never  forgive  you !  I'll  never  forgive  you ! ' 
was  his  exclamation.  '  You  shot  Yorke — I  saw  it  from  the 
window.  I  never  believed  you  could  be  so  cruel — I  can  love 
you  no  more  ! ' 

I  had  much  ado  to  explain  to  him,  with  a  steady  voice, 
the  stern  necessity  of  the  deed  ;  he  still,  with  that  inconsol- 
able and  bitter  accent  which  I  cannot  render,  but  which 
pierced  my  heart,  repeated — '  He  might  have  been  cured — 
you  should  have  tried — you  should  have  burnt  the  wound 
with  a  hot  iron,  or  covered  it  with  caustic.  You  gave  no 
time  ;  and  now  it  is  too  late — he  is  dead ! ' 

He  sank  fairly  down  on  the  senseless  carcase ;  I  waited 
patiently  a  long  while,  till  his  grief  had  somewhat  exhausted 
him  ;  and  then  I  lifted  him  in  my  arms  and  carried  him  to 
his  mother,  sure  that  she  would  comfort  him  best.  She  had 
witnessed  the  whole  scene  from  a  window ;  she  would  not 
come  out  for  fear  of  increasing  my  difficulties  by  her  emotion, 
but  she  was  ready  now  to  receive  him.  She  took  him  to 
her  kind  heart,  and  on  to  her  gentle  lap  ;  consoled  him  but 
with  her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  soft  embrace,  for  some  time  ;  and 
then,  when  his  sobs  diminished,  told  him  that  Yorke  had  felt 
no  pain  in  dying,  and  that  if  he  had  been  left  to  expire 
naturally,  his  end  would  have  been  most  horrible  ;  above  all, 
she  told  him  that  I  was  not  cruel  (for  that  idea  seemed  to 
give  exquisite  pain  to  poor  Victor),  that  it  was  my  affection 
for  Yorke  and  him  which  had  made  me  act  so,  and 
that  I  was  now  almost  heart-broken  to  see  him  weep  thus 
bitterly. 

Victor  would  have  been  no  true  son  of  his  father  had  these 
considerations,  these  reasons,  breathed  in  so  low,  so  sweet 
a  tone — married  to  caresses  so  benign,  so  tender — to  looks 
so  inspired  with  pitying  sympathy — produced  no  effect  on 
him.  They  did  produce  an  effect ;  he  grew  calmer,  rested  his 
face  on  her  shoulder,  and  lay  still  in  her  arms.  Looking  up, 


270  THE  PEOFESSOB 

shortly,  he  asked  his  mother  to  tell  him  over  again  what 
she  had  said  about  Yorke  having  suffered  no  pain,  and  my 
not  being  cruel ;  the  balmy  words  being  repeated,  he  again 
pillowed  his  cheek  on  her  breast,  and  was  again  tranquil. 

Some  hours  after,  he  came  to  me  in  my  library,  asked  if 
I  forgave  him,  and  desired  to  be  reconciled.  I  drew  the  lad 
to  my  side,  and  there  I  kept  him  a  good  while,  and  had 
much  talk  with  him,  in  the  course  of  which  he  disclosed 
many  points  of  feeling  and  thought  I  approved  of  in  my  son. 
I  found,  it  is  true,  few  elements  of  the  '  good  fellow '  or  the 
'  fine  fellow '  in  him ;  scant  sparkles  of  the  spirit  which  loves 
to  flash  over  the  wine-cup,  or  which  kindles  the  passions  to 
a  destroying  fire  ;  but  I  saw  in  the  soil  of  his  heart  healthy 
and  swelling  germs  of  compassion,  affection,  fidelity.  I  dis- 
covered in  the  garden  of  his  intellect  a  rich  growth  of 
wholesome  principles — reason,  justice,  moral  courage,  pro- 
mised, if  not  blighted,  a  fertile  bearing.  So  I  bestowed  on 
his  large  forehead,  and  on  his  cheek — still  pale  with  tears — a 
proud  and  contented  kiss,  and  sent  him  away  comforted. 
Yet  I  saw  him  the  next  day  laid  on  the  mound  under  which 
Yorke  had  been  buried,  his  face  covered  with  his  hands ;  he 
was  melancholy  for  some  weeks,  and  more  than  a  year 
elapsed  before  he  would  listen  to  any  proposal  of  having 
another  dog. 

Victor  learns  fast.  Ho  must  soon  go  to  Eton,  where, 
I  suspect,  his  first  year  or  two  will  be  utter  wretchedness :  to 
leave  me,  his  mother,  and  his  home,  will  give  his  heart  an 
agonised  wrench  ;  then,  the  fagging  will  not  suit  him — but 
emulation,  thirst  after  knowledge,  the  glory  of  success,  will 
stir  and  reward  him  in  time.  Meantime,  I  feel  in  myself  a 
strong  repugnance  to  fix  the  hour  which  will  uproot  my  sole 
olive  branch,  and  transplant  it  far  from  me  ;  and,  when  I 
speak  to  Frances  on  the  subject,  I  am  heard  with  a  kind  of 
patient  pain,  as  though  I  alluded  to  some  fearful  operation, 
at  which  her  nature  shudders,  but  from  which  her  fortitude 
will  not  permit  her  to  recoil.  The  step  must,  however,  be 
taken,  and  it  shall  be  ;  for,  though  Frances  will  not  make  a 


THE  PROFESSOR  271 

milksop  of  her  son,  she  will  accustom  him  to  a  style  of  treat- 
ment, a  forbearance,  a  congenial  tenderness,  he  will  meet 
with  from  none  else.  She  sees,  as  I  also  see,  a  something  in 
Victor's  temper — a  kind  of  electrical  ardour  and  power — 
which  emits,  now  and  then,  ominous  sparks  ;  Hunsden  calls 
it  his  spirit,  and  says  it  should  not  be  curbed.  I  call  it  the 
leaven  of  the  offending  Adam,  and  consider  that  it  should  be, 
if  not  whipped  out  of  him,  at  least  soundly  disciplined  ;  and 
that  he  will  be  cheap  of  any  amount  of  either  bodily  or 
mental  suffering  which  will  ground  him  radically  in  the  art 
of  self-control.  Frances  gives  this  somethitig  in  her  son's 
marked  character  no  name ;  but  when  it  appears  in  the 
grinding  of  his  teeth,  in  the  glittering  of  his  eye,  in  the 
fierce  revolt  of  feeling  against  disappointment,  mischance, 
sudden  sorrow,  or  supposed  injustice,  she  folds  him  to  her 
breast,  or  takes  him  to  walk  with  her  alone  in  the  wood  ;  then 
she  reasons  with  him  like  any  philosopher,  and  to  reason 
Victor  is  ever  accessible  ;  then  she  looks  at  him  with  eyes  of 
love,  and  by  love  Victor  can  be  infallibly  subjugated ;  but 
will  reason  or  love  be  the  weapons  with  which  in  future  the 
world  will  meet  his  violence  ?  Oh,  no  !  for  that  flash  in  his 
black  eye — for  that  cloud  on  his  bony  brow — for  that  com- 
pression of  his  statuesque  lips,  the  lad  will  some  day  get 
blows  instead  of  blandishments — kicks  instead  of  kisses ;  then 
for  the  fit  of  mute  fury  which  will  sicken  his  body  and 
madden  his  soul ;  then  for  the  ordeal  of  merited  and 
salutary  suffering,  out  of  which  he  will  come  (I  trust)  a 
wiser  and  a  better  man. 

I  see  him  now  ;  he  stands  by  Hunsden,  who  is  seated  on 
the  lawn  under  the  beech  ;  Hunsden's  hand  rests  on  the  boy's 
collar,  and  he  is  instilling  God  knows  what  principles  into 
his  ear.  Victor  looks  well  just  now,  for  he  listens  with  a 
sort  of  smiling  interest ;  he  never  looks  so  like  his  mother  as 
when  he  smiles — pity  the  sunshine  breaks  out  so  rarely  ! 
Victor  has  a  preference  for  Hunsden,  full  as  strong  as  I 
deem  desirable,  being  considerably  more  potent,  decided,  and 
indiscriininating,  than  any  I  ever  entertained  for  tha.t 


272  THE  PROFESSOR 

personage  myself.  Frances,  too,  regards  it  with  a  sort  of 
unexpressed  anxiety ;  while  her  son  leans  on  Hunsden's 
knee,  or  rests  against  his  shoulder,  she  roves  with  restless 
movement  round,  like  a  dove  guarding  its  young  from  a 
hovering  hawk ;  she  says  she  wishes  Hunsden  had  children 
of  his  own,  for  then  he  would  better  know  the  danger  of 
inciting  their  pride  and  indulging  their  foibles. 

Frances  approaches  my  library  window ;  puts  aside  the 
honeysuckle  which  half  covers  it,  and  tells  me  tea  is  ready  ; 
seeing  that  I  continue  busy  she  enters  the  room,  comes  near 
me  quietly,  and  puts  her  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

'  Monsieur  est  trop  applique.' 

'  I  shall  soon  have  done.' 

She  draws  a  chair  near,  and  sits  down  to  wait  till  I  have 
finished ;  her  presence  is  as  pleasant  to  my  mind  as  the 
perfume  of  the  fresh  hay  and  spicy  flowers,  as  the  glow  of 
the  westering  sun,  as  the  repose  of  the  midsummer  eve  are 
to  my  senses. 

But  Hunsden  comes  ;  I  hear  his  step,  and  there  he  is, 
bending  through  the  lattice,  from  which  he  has  thrust  away 
the  woodbine  with  unsparing  hand,  disturbing  two  bees  and 
a  butterfly. 

'  Crimsworth !  I  say,  Crimsworth  !  take  that  pen  out  of 
his  hand,  mistress,  and  make  him  lift  up  his  head.' 

I  Well,  Hunsden  ?    I  hear  you — 

I 1  was  at  X yesterday  !  your  brother  Ned  is  getting 

richer  than  Croesus  by  railway  speculations ;  they  call  him  in 
the  Piece  Hall  a  stag  of  ten  ;  and  I  have  heard  from  Brown. 
M.  and  Madame  Vandenhuten  and  Jean  Baptiste  talk  of 
coming  to  see  you  next  month.     He  mentions  the  Pelets 
too  ;  he  says  their  domestic  harmony  is  not  the  finest  in  the 
world,  but  in  business  they  are  doing  "  on  ne  peut  mieux," 
which  circumstance  he  concludes  will  be  a  sufficient   con- 
solation to  both  for  any  little  crosses  in  the  affections.     Why 
don't  you   invite   the  Pelets  to  -  — shire,   Crimsworth?     I 
should  so  like  to  see  your  first  flame,  Zorai'de.     Mistress, 
don't  be  jealous,  but  he  loved  that  lady  to  distraction  ;  I 


THE  PROFESSOR  273 

know  it  for  a  fact.     Brown  says  she  weighs  twelve  stone 
now;   you  see  what    you've    lost,    Mr.    Professor.     Now, 
Monsieur  and  Madame,  if  you  don't  come  to  tea,  Victor  and 
I  will  begin  without  you.' 
'  Papa,  come  ! ' 


THE   END  OF   'THE   PROFESSOR* 


EMMA 

A  FRAGMENT  OF   A  STORY  BY  CHARLOTTE  BRONTfi 


THIS  fragment,  the  last  literary  effort  of  the  author  of  '  Jane 
Eyre,'  appeared  in  the  '  Cornhill  Magazine '  for  April,  1860, 
preceded  by  the  following  introduction  from  the  pen  of  its 
editor,  Mr.  W.  M.  Thackeray,  entitled  :— 

THE  LAST   SKETCH 

[Not  many  days  since  I  went  to  visit  a  house  where  in 
former  years  I  had  received  many  a  friendly  welcome.  We 
went  into  the  owner's — an  artist's — studio.  Prints,  pictures, 
and  sketches  hung  on  the  walls  as  I  had  last  seen  and 
remembered  them.  The  implements  of  the  painter's  art 
were  there.  The  light  which  had  shone  upon  so  many, 
many  hours  of  patient  and  cheerful  toil,  poured  through  the 
northern  window  upon  print  and  bust,  lay  figure  and  sketch, 
and  upon  the  easel  before  which  the  good,  the  gentle,  the 
beloved  Leslie  laboured.  In  this  room  the  busy  brain  had 
devised,  and  the  skilful  hand  executed,  I  know  not  how 
many  of  the  noble  works  which  have  delighted  the  world 
with  their  beauty  and  charming  humour.  Here  the  poet 
called  up  into  pictorial  presence,  and  informed  with  life, 
grace,  beauty,  infinite  friendly  mirth  and  wondrous  natural- 
ness of  expression,  the  people  of  whom  his  dear  books  told 


278  THE   LAST  SKETCH 

him  the  stories, — his  Shakspeare,  his  Cervantes,  his  Moliere, 
his  Le  Sage.  There  was  his  last  work  on  the  easel — a 
beautiful  fresh  smiling  shape  of  Titania,  such  as  his  sweet 
guileless  fancy  imagined  the  Midsummer  Night's  queen  to  be. 
Gracious,  and  pure,  and  bright,  the  sweet  smiling  image 
glimmers  on  the  canvas.  Fairy  elves,  no  doubt,  were  to  have 
been  grouped  around  their  mistress  in  laughing  clusters. 
Honest  Bottom's  grotesque  head  and  form  are  indicated  as  re- 
posing by  the  side  of  the  consummate  beauty.  The  darkling 
forest  would  have  grown  around  them,  with  the  stars  glit- 
tering from  the  midsummer  sky :  the  flowers  at  the  queen's 
feet,  and  the  boughs  and  foliage  about  her,  would  have  been 
peopled  with  gambolling  sprites  and  fays.  They  were 
dwelling  in  the  artist's  mind  no  doubt,  and  would  have  been 
developed  by  that  patient,  faithful,  admirable  genius  :  but 
the  busy  brain  stopped  working,  the  skilful  hand  fell  lifeless, 
the  loving,  honest  heart  ceased  to  beat.  What  was  she  to 
have  been — that  fair  Titania — when  perfected  by  the  patient 
skill  of  the  poet,  who  in  imagination  saw  the  sweet  innocent 
figure,  and  with  tender  courtesy  and  caresses,  as  it  were, 
posed  and  shaped  and  traced  the  fair  form  ?  Is  there  record 
kept  anywhere  of  fancies  conceived,  beautiful,  unborn? 
Some  day  will  they  assume  form  in  some  yet  undeveloped 
light  ?  If  our  bad  unspoken  thoughts  are  registered  against 
us,  and  are  written  in  the  awful  account,  will  not  the  good 
thoughts  unspoken,  the  love  and  tenderness,  the  pity,  beauty, 
charity,  which  pass  through  the  breast,  and  cause  the  heart  to 
throb  with  silent  good,  find  a  remembrance,  too?  A  few 
weeks  more,  and  this  lovely  offspring  of  the  poet's  conception 
would  have  been  complete — to  charm  the  world  with  its 
beautiful  mirth.  May  there  not  be  some  sphere  unknown  to 
us  where  it  may  have  an  existence  ?  They  say  our  words, 
once  out  of  our  lips,  go  travelling  in  omne  avum,  reverberating 
for  ever  and  ever.  If  our  words,  why  not  our  thoughts  ?  II 
the  Has  Been,  why  not  the  Might  Have  Been  ? 

Some  day  our  spirits  may  be  permitted  to  walk  in  galleries 
of  fancies  more  wondrous  and  beautiful  than  any  achieved 


THE  LAST  SKETCH  279 

works  which  at  present  we  see,  and  our  minds  to  behold  and 
delight  in  masterpieces  which  poets'  and  artists'  minds  have 
fathered  and  conceived  only. 

With  a  feeling  much  akin  to  that  with  which  I  looked 
upon  the  friend's — the  admirable  artist's — unfinished  work, 
I  can  fancy  many  readers  turning  to  these — the  last  pages 
which  were  traced  by  Charlotte  Bronte's  hand.  Of  the 
multitude  that  has  read  her  books,  who  has  not  known  and 
deplored  the  tragedy  of  her  family,  her  own  most  sad  and 
untimely  fate  ?  Which  of  her  readers  has  not  become  her 
friend  ?  Who  that  has  known  her  books  has  not  admired 
the  artist's  noble  English,  the  burning  love  of  truth,  the 
bravery,  the  simplicity,  the  indignation  at  wrong,  the  eager 
sympathy,  the  pious  love  and  reverence,  the  passionate 
honour,  so  to  speak,  of  the  woman  ?  What  a  story  is  that 
of  that  family  of  poets  in  their  solitude  yonder  on  the 
gloomy  northern  moors  !  At  nine  o'clock  at  night,  Mrs. 
Gaskell  tells,  after  evening  prayers,  when  their  guardian  and 
relative  had  gone  to  bed,  the  three  poetesses — the  three 
maidens,  Charlotte,  and  Emily,  and  Anne — Charlotte  being 
the  '  motherly  friend  and  guardian  to  the  other  two  '- 
'  began,  like  restless  wild  animals,  to  pace  up  and  down  their 
parlour,  "  making  out  "  their  wonderful  stories,  talking  over 
plans  and  projects,  and  thoughts  of  what  was  to  be  their 
future  life.' 

One  evening,  at  the  close  of  1854,  as  Charlotte  Nicolls  sat 
with  her  husband  by  the  fire,  listening  to  the  howling  of  the 
wind  about  the  house,  she  suddenly  said  to  her  husband,  '  If 
you  had  not  been  with  me,  I  must  have  been  writing  now.' 
She  then  ran  upstairs,  and  brought  down,  and  read  aloud, 
the  beginning  of  a  new  tale  When  she  had  finished,  her 
husband  remarked,  '  The  critics  will  accuse  you  of  repetition.' 
She  replied,  '  Oh  !  I  shall  alter  that.  I  always  begin  two  or 
three  times  before  I  can  please  myself.'  But  it  was  not  to 
be.  The  trembling  little  hand  was  to  write  no  more.  The 
heart,  newly  awakened  to  love  and  happiness,  and  throbbing 
with  maternal  hope,  was  soon  to  cease  to  beat ;  that  intrepid 


280  THE  LAST  SKETCH 

outspeaker  and  champion  of  truth,  that  eager,  impetuous 
dreresser  of  wrong,  was  to  be  called  out  of  the  world's  fight 
and  struggle,  to  lay  down  the  shining  arms,  and  to  be  re- 
moved to  a  sphere  where  even  a  noble  indignation  cor 
ulterius  ncquit  laccrarc,  and  where  truth  complete,  and  right 
triumphant,  no  longer  need  to  wage  war. 

I  can  only  say  of  this  lady,  vidi  tantum.  I  saw  her  first 
just  as  I  rose  out  of  an  illness  from  which  I  had  never 
thought  to  recover.  I  remember  the  trembling  little  frame, 
the  little  hand,  the  great  honest  eyes.  An  impetuous 
honesty  seemed  to  me  to  characterise  the  woman.  Twice  I 
recollect  she  took  me  to  task  for  what  she  held  to  be  errors 
in  doctrine.  Once  about  Fielding  we  had  a  disputation. 
She  spoke  her  mind  out.  She  jumped  too  rapidly  to  con- 
clusions. (I  have  smiled  at  one  or  two  passages  in  the 
'  Biography,'  in  which  my  own  disposition  or  behaviour  forms 
the  subject  of  talk.)  She  formed  conclusions  that  might  be 
wrong,  and  built  up  whole  theories  of  character  upon  them. 
New  to  the  London  world,  she  entered  it  with  an  inde- 
pendent, indomitable  spirit  of  her  own  ;  and  judged  of 
contemporaries,  and  especially  spied  out  arrogance  or  affec- 
tation, with  extraordinary  keenness  of  vision.  She  was 
angry  with  her  favourites  if  their  conduct  or  conversation  fell 
below  her  ideal.  Often  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  judging  the 
London  folk  prematurely  :  but  perhaps  the  city  is  rather 
angry  at  being  judged.  I  fancied  an  austere  little  Joan  of 
Arc  marching  in  upon  us,  and  rebuking  our  easy  lives,  our 
easy  morals.  She  gave  me  the  impression  of  being  a  very 
pure,  and  lofty,  and  high-minded  person.  A  great  and  holy 
reverence  of  right  and  truth  seemed  to  be  with  her  always. 
Such,  in  our  brief  interview,  she  appeared  to  me.  As  one 
thinks  of  that  life  so  noble,  so  lonely— of  that  passion  for 
truth — of  those  nights  and  nights  of  eager  study,  swarming 
fancies,  invention,  depression,  elation,  prayer ;  as  one  reads 
the  necessarily  incomplete,  though  most  touching  and 
admirable  history  of  the  heart  that  throbbed  in  this  one 
little  frame — of  this  one  amongst  the  myriads  of  souls  that 


THE  LAST  SKETCH 

have  lived  and  died  on  this  great  earth — this  great  earth  ? — 
this  little  speck  in  the  infinite  universe  of  God, — with  what 
wonder  do  we  think  of  to-day,  with  what  awe  await  to- 
morrow, when  that  which  is  now  but  darkly  seen  shall  be  clear  ! 
As  I  read  this  little  fragmentary  sketch,  I  think  of  the  rest. 
Is  it  ?  And  where  is  it  ?  Will  not  the  leaf  be  turned  some 
day,  and  the  story  be  told  ?  Shall  the  deviser  of  the  tale 
somewhere  perfect  the  history  of  little  EMMA'S  griefs  and 
troubles?  Shall  TITANIA  come  forth  complete  with  her 
sportive  court,  with  the  flowers  at  her  feet,  the  forest  around 
her,  and  all  the  stars  of  summer  glittering  overhead  ? 

How  well  I  remember  the  delight,  and  wonder,  and 
pleasure  with  which  I  read  '  Jane  Eyre,'  sent  to  me  by  an 
author  whose  name  and  sex  were  then  alike  unknown  to  me  ; 
the  strange  fascinations  of  the  book ;  and  how  with  my  own 
work  pressing  upon  me,  I  could  not,  having  taken  the 
volumes  up,  lay  them  down  until  they  were  read  through ! 
Hundreds  of  those  who,  like  myself,  recognised  and 
admired  that  master-work  of  a  great  genius,  will  look  with  a 
mournful  interest  and  regard  and  curiosity  upon  this,  the 
last  fragmentary  sketch  from  the  noble  hand  which  wrote 
1  Jane  Eyre.' 

W.  M.  T.] 


EMMA 


CHAPTER  I 

WE  all  seek  an  ideal  in  life.  A  pleasant  fancy  began  to  visit 
me  in  a  certain  year,  that  perhaps  the  number  of  human  beings 
is  few  who  do  not  find  their  quest  at  some  era  of  life  for  some 
space  more  or  less  brief.  I  had  certainly  not  found  mine  in 
youth,  though  the  strong  belief  I  held  of  its  existence  sufficed 
through  all  my  brightest  and  freshest  time  to  keep  me  hopeful. 
I  had  not  found  it  in  maturity.  I  was  become  resigned  never 
to  find  it.  I  had  lived  certain  dim  years  entirely  tranquil  and 
unexpectant.  And  now  I  was  not  sure  but  something  was 
hovering  round  my  hearth  which  pleased  me  wonderfully. 

Look  at  it,  reader.  Come  into  my  parlour  and  judge  for 
yourself  whether  I  do  right  to  care  for  this  thing.  First,  you 
may  scan  me,  if  you  please.  We  shall  go  on  better  together 
after  a  satisfactory  introduction  and  due  apprehension  of 
identity.  My  name  is  Mrs.  Chalfont.  I  am  a  widow.  My 
house  is  good,  and  my  income  such  as  need  not  check  the 
impulse  either  of  charity  or  a  moderate  hospitality.  I  am 
not  young  nor  yet  old.  There  is  no  silver  yet  in  my  hair, 
but  its  yellow  lustre  is  gone.  In  my  face  \vrinkles  are  yet  to 
come,  but  I  have  almost  forgotten  the  days  when  it  wore  any 
bloom.  I  married  when  I  was  very  young.  I  lived  for 
fifteen  years  a  life  which,  whatever  its  trials,  could  not  be 
called  stagnant.  Then  for  five  years  I  was  alone,  and, 
having  no  children,  desolate.  Lately  Fortune,  by  a  some- 


284  EMMA 

what  curious  turn  of  her  wheel,  placed  in  my  way  an  interest 
and  a  companion. 

The  neighbourhood  where  I  live  is  pleasant  enough,  its 
scenery  agreeable,  and  its  society  civilised,  though  not 
numerous.  About  a  mile  from  my  house  there  is  a  ladies' 
school,  established  but  lately — not  more  than  three  years 
since.  The  conductresses  of  this  school  were  of  my 
acquaintances  ;  and  though  I  cannot  say  that  they  occupied 
the  very  highest  place  in  my  opinion — for  they  had  brought 
back  from  some  months'  residence  abroad,  for  finishing 
purposes,  a  good  deal  that  was  fantastic,  affected,  and 
pretentious — yet  I  awarded  them  some  portion  of  that  respect 
which  seems  the  fair  due  of  all  women  who  face  life  bravely, 
and  try  to  make  their  own  way  by  their  own  efforts. 

About  a  year  after  the  Misses  Wilcox  opened  their  school, 
when  the  number  of  their  pupils  was  as  yet  exceedingly  limited, 
and  when,  no  doubt,  they  were  looking  out  anxiously  enough 
for  augmentation,  the  entrance-gate  to  their  little  drive  was 
one  day  thrown  back  to  admit  a  carriage — '  a  very  handsome, 
fashionable  cai'riage,'  Miss  Mabel  Wilcox  said,  in  narrating 
the  circumstance  afterwards — and  drawn  by  a  pair  of  really 
splendid  horses.  The  sweep  up  the  drive,  the  loud  ring  at 
the  door-bell,  the  bustling  entrance  into  the  house,  the 
ceremonious  admission  to  the  bright  drawing-room,  roused 
excitement  enough  in  Fuchsia  Lodge.  Miss  Wilcox  repaired 
to  the  reception-room  in  a  pair  of  new  gloves,  and  carrying 
in  her  hand  a  handkerchief  of  French  cambric. 

She  found  a  gentleman  seated  on  the  sofa,  who,  as  he  rose 
up,  appeared  a  tall,  fine-looking  personage  ;  at  least  she 
thought  him  so,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  light.  He 
introduced  himself  as  Mr.Fitzgibbon,  inquired  if  Miss  Wilcox 
had  a  vacancy,  and  intimated  that  he  wished  to  intrust  to  her 
care  a  new  pupil  in  the  shape  of  his  daughter.  This  was 
welcome  news,  for  there  was  many  a  vacancy  in  Miss  Wilcox's 
school-room  ;  indeed,  her  establishment  was  as  yet  limited  to 
the  select  number  of  three,  and  she  and  her  sisters  were 
looking  forward  with  anything  but  confidence  to  the 


EMMA  285 

balancing  of  accounts  at  the  close  of  their  first  half-year. 
Few  objects  could  have  been  more  agreeable  to  her  then  than 
that  to  which,  by  a  wave  of  the  hand,  Mr.  Fitzgibbon  now 
directed  her  attention — the  figure  of  a  child  standing  near 
the  drawing-room  window. 

Had  Miss  Wilcox's  establishment  boasted  fuller  ranks — 
had  she  indeed  entered  well  on  that  course  of  prosperity 
which  in  after  years  an  undeviating  attention  to  externals 
enabled  her  so  triumphantly  to  realise — an  early  thought 
with  her  would  have  been  to  judge  whether  the  acquisition 
now  offered  was  likely  to  answer  well  as  a  show-pupil.  She 
would  have  instantly  marked  her  look,  dress,  &c.,  and  inferred 
her  value  from  these  indicia.  In  those  anxious  commencing 
times,  however,  Miss  Wilcox  could  scarce  afford  herself  the 
luxury  of  such  appreciation  :  a  new  pupil  represented  40/.  a 
year,  independently  of  masters'  terms — and  40Z.  a  year  was  a 
sum  Miss  Wilcox  needed  and  was  glad  to  secure ;  besides, 
the  fine  carriage,  the  fine  gentleman,  and  the  fine  name  gave 
gratifying  assurance,  enough  and  to  spare,  of  eligibility  in 
the  proffered  connection.  It  was  admitted,  then,  that  there 
were  vacancies  in  Fuchsia  Lodge ;  that  Miss  Fitzgibbon 
could  be  received  at  once ;  that  she  was  to  learn  all  that  the 
school  prospectus  proposed  to  teach ;  to  be  liable  to  every 
extra  :  in  short,  to  be  as  expensive,  and  consequently  as 
profitable  a  pupil,  as  any  directress's  heart  could  wish.  All 
this  was  arranged  as  upon  velvet,  smoothly  and  liberally. 
Mr.  Fitzgibbon  showed  in  the  transaction  none  of  the  hard- 
ness of  the  bargain-making  man  of  business,  and  as  little  of  the 
penurious  anxiety  of  the  straitened  professional  man.  Miss 
Wilcox  felt  him  to  be  '  quite  the  gentleman.'  Everything  dis- 
posed her  to  be  partially  inclined  towards  the  little  girl  whom 
he,  on  taking  leave,  formally  committed  to  her  guardianship  : 
and  as  if  no  circumstance  should  be  wanting  to  complete  her 
happy  impression,  the  address  left  written  on  a  card  served  to 
lill  up  the  measure  of  Miss  Wilcox's  satisfaction— Conway 
Fitzgibbon,  Esq.,  May  Park,  Midland  County.  That  very 
day  three  decrees  were  passed  in  the  pew-comer's  favour  : — 


286  EMMA 

1st.  That  she  was  to  be  Miss  Wilcox's  bed-fellow. 

2nd.  To  sit  next  her  at  table. 

3rd.  To  walk  out  with  her. 

In  a  few  days  it  became  evident  that  a  fourth  secret 
clause  had  been  added  to  these,  viz.  that  Miss  Fitzgibbon 
was  to  be  favoured,  petted,  and  screened  on  all  possible 
occasions. 

An  ill-conditioned  pupil,  who  before  coming  to  Fuchsia 
Lodge  had  passed  a  year  under  the  care  of  certain  old- 
fashioned  Misses  Sterling,  of  Hartwood,  and  from  them  had 
picked  up  unpractical  notions  of  justice,  took  it  upon  her  to 
utter  an  opinion  on  this  system  of  favouritism. 

1  The  Misses  Sterling,'  she  injudiciously  said,  '  never 
distinguished  any  girl  because  she  was  richer  or  better 
dressed  than  the  rest.  They  would  have  scorned  to  do  so. 
They  always  rewarded  girls  according  as  they  behaved  well 
to  their  school-fellows  and  minded  their  lessons,  not 
according  to  the  number  of  their  silk  dresses,  and  fine  laces 
and  feathers.' 

For  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Miss  Fitzgibbon's 
trunks,  when  opened,  disclosed  a  splendid  wardrobe ;  so  fine 
were  the  various  articles  of  apparel,  indeed,  that  instead  of 
assigning  for  their  accommodation  the  painted  deal  drawers  of 
the  school  bedroom,  Miss  Wilcox  had  them  arranged  in  a 
mahogany  bureau  in  her  own  room.  With  her  own  hands, 
too,  she  would  on  Sundays  array  the  little  favourite  in  her 
quilted  silk  pelisse.,  her  hat  and  feathers,  her  ermine  boa,  and 
little  French  boots  and  gloves.  And  very  self-complacent 
she  felt  when  she  led  the  young  heiress  (a  letter  from  Mr. 
Fitzgibbon,  received  since  his  first  visit,  had  communicated 
the  additional  pr.rticulars  that  his  daughter  was  his  only 
child,  and  would  be  the  inheritress  of  his  estates,  including 
May  Park,  Midland  County) — when  she  led  her,  I  say,  into 
the  church,  and  seated  her  stately  by  her  side  at  the  top  of  the 
gallery-pew.  Unbiassed  observers  might,  indeed,  have 
wondered  what  there  was  to  be  proud  of,  and  puzzled  their 
heaJs  to  detect  the  special  merits  of  this  little  woman  in  silk 


EMMA  287 

— for,  to  speak  truth,  Miss  Fitzgibbon  was  far  from  being  the 
beauty  of  the  school :  there  were  two  or  three  blooming  little 
faces  amongst  her  companions  lovelier  than  hers.  Had  she 
been  a  poor  child,  Miss  Wilcox  herself  would  not  have  liked 
her  physiognomy  at  all :  rather,  indeed,  would  it  have  repelled 
than  attracted  her;  and,  moreover — though  Miss  Wilcox 
hardly  confessed  the  circumstance  to  herself,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  strove  hard  not  to  be  conscious  of  it — there  were 
moments  when  she  became  sensible  of  a  certain  strange 
weariness  in  continuing  her  system  of  partiality.  It  hardly 
came  natural  to  her  to  show  this  special  distinction  in  this 
particular  instance.  An  undefined  wonder  would  smite  her 
sometimes  that  she  did  not  take  more  real  satisfaction  in 
flattering  and  caressing  this  embryo  heiress— that  she  did 
not  like  better  to  have  her  always  at  her  side,  under  her 
special  charge.  On  principle  Miss  Wilcox  continued  the 
plan  she  had  begun.  On  principle,  for  she  argued  with  her- 
self :  This  is  the  most  aristocratic  and  richest  of  my  pupils  ; 
she  brings  me  the  most  credit  and  the  most  profit :  therefore, 
I  ought  in  justice  to  show  her  a  special  indulgence ;  which 
she  did — but  with  a  gradually  increasing  peculiarity  of 
feeling. 

Certainly,  the  undue  favours  showered  on  little  Miss 
Fitzgibbon  brought  their  object  no  real  benefit.  Unfitted  for 
the  character  of  playfellow  by  her  position  of  favourite,  her 
fellow-pupils  rejected  her  company  as  decidedly  as  they 
dared.  Active  rejection  was  not  long  necessary ;  it  was 
soon  seen  that  passive  avoidance  would  suffice  ;  the  pet  was 
not  social.  No  :  even  Miss  Wilcox  never  thought  her  social. 
WThen  she  sent  for  her  to  show  her  fine  clothes  in  the 
drawing-room  when  there  was  company,  and  especially  when 
she  had  her  into  her  parlour  of  an  evening  to  be  her  own 
companion,  Miss  Wilcox  used  to  feel  curiously  perplexed. 
She  would  try  to  talk  affably  to  the  young  heiress,  to  draw 
her  out,  to  amuse  her.  To  herself  the  governess  could  render 
no  reason  why  her  efforts  soon  flagged  ;  but  this  was 
invariably  the  case.  However,  Mibs  Wilcox  was  a  woman  of 


288  EMMA 

courage  ;  and  be  the  proUg&e  what  she  might,  the  patroness 
did  not  fail  to  continue  on  principle  her  system  of  preference. 
A  favourite  has  no  friends ;  and  the  observation  of  a 
gentleman,  who  about  this  time  called  at  the  Lodge  and 
chanced  to  see  Miss  Fitzgibbon,  was,  '  That  child  looks 
consummately  unhappy  :  '  he  was  watching  Miss  Fitzgibbon, 
as  she  walked,  by  herself,  fine  and  solitary,  while  her  school- 
fellows were  merrily  playing. 

'  Who  is  the  miserable  little  wight  ?  '  he  asked. 

He  was  told  her  name  and  dignity. 

1  Wretched  little  soul !  '  he  repeated  ;  and  he  watched 
her  pace  down  the  walk  and  back  again  ;  marching  upright, 
her  hands  in  her  ermine  muff,  her  fine  pelisse  showing  a  gay 
sheen  to  the  winter's  sun,  her  large  Leghorn  hat  shading 
such  a  face  as  fortunately  had  not  its  parallel  on  the 
premises. 

'  Wretched  little  soul ! '  reiterated  this  gentleman.  He 
opened  the  drawing-room  window,  watched  the  bearer  of  the 
muff  till  he  caught  her  eye ;  and  then  summoned  her  with 
his  finger.  She  came ;  he  stooped  his  head  down  to  her  ;  she 
lifted  her  face  up  to  him. 

'  Don't  you  play,  little  girl  ? ' 

1  No,  sir.' 

'  No !  Why  not  ?  Do  you  think  yourself  better  than 
other  children  ?  ' 

No  answer. 

'  Is  it  because  people  tell  you  you  are  rich,  you  won't 
play?' 

The  young  lady  was  gone.  He  stretched  his  hand  to 
arrest  her,  but  she  wheeled  beyond  his  reach,  and  ran  quickly 
out  of  sight. 

'  An  only  child,'  pleaded  Miss  Wilcox  ;  '  possibly  spoiled 
by  her  papa,  you  know  ;  we  must  excuse  a  little  petfcishness.' 

1  Humph  !  I  am  afraid  there  is  not  a  little  to  excuse.' 


CHAPTER  II 

ME.  ELLIN — the  gentleman  mentioned  in  the  last  chapter — 
was  a  man  who  went  where  he  liked,  and  being  a  gossiping, 
leisurely  person,  he  liked  to  go  almost  anywhere.  He  could 
not  be  rich,  he  lived  so  quietly  ;  and  yet  he  must  have  had 
some  money,  for,  without  apparent  profession,  he  continued 
to  keep  a  house  and  a  servant.  He  always  spoke  of  himself  as 
having  once  been  a  worker ;  but  if  so,  that  could  not  have  been 
very  long  since,  for  he  still  looked  far  from  old.  Sometimes 
of  an  evening,  under  a  little  social  conversational  excitement, 
he  would  look  quite  young  ;  but  he  was  changeable  in  mood, 
and  complexion,  and  expression,  and  had  chameleon  eyes, 
sometimes  blue  and  merry,  sometimes  grey  and  dark,  and 
anon  green  and  gleaming.  On  the  whole  he  might  be  called  a 
fair  man,  of  average  height,  rather  thin  and  rather  wiry.  He 
had  not  resided  more  than  two  years  in  the  present  neigh- 
bourhood ;  his  antecedents  were  unknown  there ;  but  as  the 
Rector,  a  man  of  good  family  and  standing,  and  of  undoubted 
scrupulousness  in  the  choice  of  acquaintance,  had  introduced 
him,  he  found  everywhere  a  prompt  reception,  of  which 
nothing  in  his  conduct  had  yet  seemed  to  prove  him 
unworthy.  Some  people,  indeed,  dubbed  him  '  a  character,' 
and  fancied  him  '  eccentric ' ;  but  others  could  not  see  the 
appropriateness  of  the  epithets.  He  always  seemed  to 
them  very  harmless  and  quiet,  not  always  perhaps  so 
perfectly  unreserved  and  comprehensible  as  might  be  wished. 
He  had  a  discomposing  expression  in  his  eye  ;  and  some- 
times in  conversation  an  ambiguous  diction  ;  but  still  they 
believed  he  meant  no  harm. 


290  EMMA 

Mr.  Ellin  often  called  on  the  Misses  Wilcox ;  he  some- 
times took  tea  with  them  ;  he  appeared  to  like  tea  and  muffins, 
and  not  to  dislike  the  kind  of  conversation  which  usually 
accompanies  that  refreshment ;  he  was  said  to  be  a  good 
shot,  a  good  angler. — He  proved  himself  an  excellent  gossip 
— he  liked  gossip  well.  On  the  whole  he  liked  women's 
society,  and  did  not  seem  to  be  particular  in  requiring 
difficult  accomplishments  or  rare  endowments  in  his  female 
acquaintance.  The  Misses  Wilcox,  for  instance,  were  not 
much  less  shallow  than  the  china  saucer  which  held  their 
teacups  ;  yet  Mr.  Ellin  got  on  perfectly  well  with  them,  and 
had  apparently  great  pleasure  in  hearing  them  discuss  all  the 
details  of  their  school.  He  knew  the  names  of  all  their  young 
ladies  too,  and  would  shake  hands  with  them  if  he  met  them 
walking  out ;  he  knew  their  examination  days  and  gala  days, 
and  more  than  once  accompanied  Mr.  Cecil,  the  curate,  when 
he  went  to  examine  in  ecclesiastical  history. 

This  ceremony  took  place  weekly,  on  Wednesday  after- 
noons, after  which  Mr.  Cecil  sometimes  stayed  to  tea,  and 
usually  found  two  or  three  lady  parishioners  invited  to  meet 
him.  Mr.  Ellin  was  also  pretty  sure  to  be  there.  Rumour 
gave  one  of  the  Misses  Wilcox  in  anticipated  wedlock  to  the 
curate,  and  furnished  his  friend  with  a  second  in  the  same 
tender  relation  ;  so  that  it  is  to  be  conjectured  they  made  a 
social,  pleasant  party  under  such  interesting  circumstances. 
Their  evenings  rarely  passed  without  Miss  Fitzgibbon  being 
introduced — all  worked  muslin  and  streaming  sash  and 
elaborated  ringlets  ;  others  of  the  pupils  would  also  be  called 
in,  perhaps  to  sing,  to  show  off  a  little  at  the  piano,  or 
sometimes  to  repeat  poetry.  Miss  Wilcox  conscientiously 
cultivated  display  in  her  young  ladies,  thinking  she  thus 
fulfilled  a  duty  to  herself  and  to  them,  at  once  spreading 
her  own  fame  and  giving  the  children  self-possessed 
manners. 

It  was  curious  to  note  how,  on  these  occasions,  good, 
genuine  natural  qualities  still  vindicated  their  superiority  to 
counterfeit,  artificial  advantages.  While  '  dear  Miss  Fitz- 


EMMA  291 

gibbon,'  dressed  up  and  flattered  as  she  was,  could  only  sidle 
round  the  circle  with  the  crestfallen  air  which  seemed  natural 
to  her,  just  giving  her  hand  to  the  guests,  then,  almost 
snatching  it  away,  and  sneaking  in  unmannerly  haste  to  the 
place  allotted  to  her  at  Miss  Wilcox's  side,  which  place  she 
filled  like  a  piece  of  furniture,  neither  smiling  nor  speaking 
the  evening  through — while  such  was  her  deportment,  certain 
of  her  companions,  as  Mary  Franks,  Jessy  Newton,  &c., 
handsome,  open-countenanced  little  damsels — fearless  because 
harmless — would  enter  with  a  smile  of  salutation  and  a 
blush  of  pleasure,  make  their  pretty  reverence  at  the  drawing- 
room  door,  stretch  a  friendly  little  hand  to  such  visitors 
as  they  knew,  and  sit  down  to  the  piano  to  play  their  well- 
practised  duet  with  an  innocent,  obliging  readiness  which 
won  all  hearts. 

There  was  a  girl  called  Diana — the  girl  alluded  to  before 
as  having  once  been  Miss  Sterling's  pupil — a  daring,  brave 
girl,  much  loved  and  a  little  feared  by  her  comrades.     She 
had  good  faculties,  both  physical  and  mental — was  clever, 
honest,  and  dauntless.     In  the  schoolroom  she  set  her  young 
brow  like  a  rock  against  Miss  Fitzgibbon's  pretensions  ;  she 
found  also  heart  and  spirit  to  withstand  them  in  the  drawing- 
room.     One  evening,  when  the  curate  had  been  summoned 
away  by  some  piece  of  duty  directly  after  tea,  and  there  was 
no  stranger  present  but  Mr.  Ellin,  Diana  had  been  called  in 
to  play  a  long,  difficult   piece  of  music  which  she   could 
execute  like   a  master.     She  was  still  in  the  midst  of  her 
performance,   when — Mr.   Ellin   having  for  the  first   time, 
perhaps,  recognised  the  existence  of  the  heiress  by  asking  if 
she  was  cold — Miss  Wilcox  took  the  opportunity  of  launching 
into  a  strain  of  commendation  on  Miss  Fitzgibbon's  inani- 
mate behaviour,  terming  it  lady-like,  modest,  and  exemplary. 
Whether  Miss  Wilcox's  constrained  tone  betrayed  how  far 
she  was  from  really  feeling  the  approbation  she  expressed, 
how  entirely  she   spoke   from   a   sense   of   duty,   and   not 
because  she  felt  it  possible  to  be  in  any  degree  charmed  by 
the  personage  she  praised— or  whether  Diana,  who  was  by 


292  EMMA 

nature  hasty,  had  a  sudden  fit  of  irritability — is  not  quite 
certain,  but  she  turned  on  her  music-stool. 

'  Ma'am,'  said  she  to  Miss  Wilcox,  '  that  girl  does  not 
deserve  so  much  praise.  Her  behaviour  is  not  at  all  exem- 
plary. In  the  schoolroom  she  is  insolently  distant.  For  my 
part  I  denounce  her  airs ;  there  is  not  one  of  us  but  is  as 
good  or  better  than  she,  though  we  may  not  be  as  rich.' 

And  Diana  shut  up  the  piano,  took  her  music-book  under 
her  arm,  curtsied,  and  vanished. 

Strange  to  relate,  Miss  Wilcox  said  not  a  word  at  the 
time  ;  nor  was  Diana  subsequently  reprimanded  for  this  out- 
break. Miss  Fitzgibbon  had  now  been  three  months  in  the 
school,  and  probably  the  governess  had  had  leisure  to  wear 
out  her  early  raptures  of  partiality. 

Indeed,  as  time  advanced,  this  evil  often  seemed  likely  to 
right  itself ;  again  and  again  it  seemed  that  Miss  Fitzgibbon 
was  about  to  fall  to  her  proper  level,  but  then,  somewhat 
provokingly  to  the  lovers  of  reason  and  justice,  some  little 
incident  would  occur  to  invest  her  insignificance  with 
artificial  interest.  Once  it  was  the  arrival  of  a  great  basket 
of  hothouse  fruit — melons,  grapes,  and  pines — as  a  present 
to  Miss  Wilcox  in  Miss  Fitzgibbon's  name.  Whether  it  was 
that  a  share  of  these  luscious  productions  was  imparted  too 
freely  to  the  nominal  donor,  or  whether  she  had  had  a 
surfeit  of  cake  on  Miss  Mabel  Wilcox's  birthday,  it  so  befell, 
that  in  some  disturbed  state  of  the  digestive  organs  Miss 
Fitzgibbon  took  to  sleep-walking.  She  one  night  terrified 
the  school  into  a  panic  by  passing  through  the  bedrooms,  all 
white  in  her  night-dress,  moaning  and  holding  out  her  hands 
as  she  went. 

Dr.  Percy  was  then  sent  for  ;  his  medicines,  probably,  did 
not  suit  the  case ;  for  within  a  fortnight  after  the  somnam- 
bulistic feat,  Miss  Wilcox  going  upstairs  in  the  dark,  trod  on 
something  which  she  thought  was  the  cat,  and  on  calling  for 
a  light,  found  her  darling  Matilda  Fitzgibbon  curled  round 
on  the  landing,  blue,  cold,  and  stiff,  without  any  light  in  her 
half-open  eyes,  or  any  colour  in  her  lips,  or  movement  in  her 


EMMA  293 

limbs.  She  was  not  soon  roused  from  this  fit ;  her  senses 
seemed  half  scattered ;  and  Miss  Wilcox  had  now  an 
undeniable  excuse  for  keeping  her  all  day  on  the  drawing- 
room  sofa,  and  making  more  of  her  than  ever. 

There  comes  a  day  of  reckoning  both  for  petted  heiresses 
and  partial  governesses. 

One  clear  winter  morning,  as  Mr.  Ellin  was  seated 
at  breakfast,  enjoying  his  bachelor's  easy-chair  and 
damp,  fresh  London  newspaper,  a  note  was  brought  to  him 
marked  '  private,"  and  '  in  haste.'  The  last  injunction  was 
vain,  for  William  Ellin  did  nothing  in  haste — he  had  no 
haste  in  him ;  he  wondered  anybody  should  be  so  foolish  as 
to  hurry  ;  life  was  short  enough  without  it.  He  looked  at 
the  little  note — three-cornered,  scented,  and  feminine.  He 
knew  the  handwriting  ;  it  came  from  the  very  lady  Rumour 
had  so  often  assigned  him  as  his  own.  The  bachelor  took 
out  a  morocco  case,  selected  from  a  variety  of  little  instru- 
ments a  pair  of  tiny  scissors,  cut  round  the  seal,  and  read  : — 
'  Miss  Wilcox's  compliments  to  Mr.  Ellin,  and  she  should  be 
truly  glad  to  see  him  for  a  few  minutes,  if  at  leisure.  Miss 
W.  requires  a  little  advice.  She  will  reserve  explanations 
till  she  sees  Mr.  E.' 

Mr.  Ellin  very  quietly  finished  his  breakfast ;  then,  as  it 
was  a  very  fine  December  day — hoar  and  crisp,  but  serene, 
and  not  bitter — he  carefully  prepared  himself  for  the  cold,  took 
his  cane,  and  set  out.  He  liked  the  walk  ;  the  air  was  still ; 
the  sun  not  wholly  ineffectual ;  the  path  firm,  and  but 
lightly  powdered  with  snow.  He  made  his  journey  as  long 
as  he  could  by  going  round  through  many  fields,  and  through 
winding,  unfrequented  lanes.  When  there  was  a  tree  in  the 
way  conveniently  placed  for  support,  he  would  sometimes 
stop,  lean  his  back  against  the  trunk,  fold  his  arms,  and  muse. 
If  Rumour  could  have  seen  him,  she  would  have  affirmed 
that  he  was  thinking  about  Miss  Wilcox  ;  perhaps  when 
he  arrives  at  the  Lodge  his  demeanour  will  inform  us  whether 
such  an  idea  be  warranted. 

At  last  he  stands  at  the  door  and  rings  the  bell ;  he  is 


294  EMMA 

admitted,  and  shown  into  the  parlour — a  smaller  and  a  more 
private  room  than  the  drawing-room.  Miss  Wilcox  occupies 
it ;  she  is  seated  at  her  writing-table  ;  she  rises — not  without 
air  and  grace — to  receive  her  visitor.  This  air  and  grace  she 
learnt  in  France ;  for  she  was  in  a  Parisian  school  for  six 
months,  and  learnt  there  a  little  French,  and  a  stock  of 
gestures  and  courtesies.  No  •  it  is  certainly  not  impossible 
that  Mr.  Ellin  may  admire  Miss  Wilcox.  She  is  not  without 
prettiness,  any  more  than  are  her  sisters  ;  and  she  and  they 
are  one  and  all  smart  and  showy.  Bright  stone-blue  is  a 
colour  they  like  in  dress ;  a  crimson  bow  rarely  fails  to  be 
pinned  on  somewhere  to  give  contrast ,  positive  colours 
generally — grass-greens,  red  violets,  deep  yellows — are  in 
favour  with  them  ;  all  harmonies  are  at  a  discount.  Many 
people  would  think  Miss  Wilcox,  standing  there  in  her  blue 
merino  dress  and  pomegranate  ribbon,  a  very  agreeable 
woman.  She  has  regular  features ;  the  nose  is  a  little 
sharp,  the  lips  a  little  thin,  good  complexion,  light  red  hair. 
She  is  very  business-like,  very  practical ;  she  never  in  her 
life  knew  a  refinement  of  feeling  or  of  thought ;  she  is 
entirely  limited,  respectable,  and  self-satisfied.  She  has  a 
cool,  prominent  eye  ;  sharp  and  shallow  pupil,  unshrinking 
and  inexpansive  ;  pale  irid  ;  light  eyelashes,  light  brow.  Miss 
Wilcox  is  a  very  proper  and  decorous  person  ;  but  she  could 
not  be  delicate  or  modest,  because  she  is  naturally  destitute 
of  sensitiveness.  Her  voice,  when  she  speaks,  has  no  vibra- 
tion ;  her  face  no  expression ;  her  manner  no  emotion. 
Blush  or  tremor  she  never  knew. 

'  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Miss  Wilcox  ?  '  says  Mr.  Ellin, 
approaching  the  writing-table,  and  taking  a  chair  beside  it. 

'  Perhaps  you  can  advise  me,'  was  the  answer ;  '  or 
perhaps  you  can  give  me  some  information.  I  feel  so 
thoroughly  puzzled,  and  really  Jear  all  is  not  right.' 

'  Where  ?  and  how  ?  ' 

'  I  will  have  redress  if  it  be  possible,'  pursued  the  lady  ; 
'  but  how  to  set  about  obtaining  it !  Draw  to  the  fire,  Mr. 
Ellin  ;  it  is  a  cold  day.' 


EMMA  295 

They  both  drew  to  the  fire.  She  continued,  '  You  know 
the  Christmas  holidays  are  near  ?  ' 

He  nodded. 

'  Well,  about  a  fortnight  since,  I  wrote,  as  is  customary, 
to  the  friends  of  my  pupils,  notifying  the  day  when  we  break 
up,  and  requesting  that,  if  it  was  desired  that  any  girl  should 
stay  the  vacation,  intimation  should  be  sent  accordingly. 
Satisfactory  and  prompt  answers  came  to  all  the  notes 
except  one — that  addressed  to  Conway  Fitzgibbon,  Esquire, 
May  Park,  Midland  County — Matilda  Fitzgibbon's  father, 
you  know.' 

'  What  ?  won't  he  let  her  go  home  ?  ' 

'  Let  her  go  home,  my  dear  sir  !  You  shall  hear.  Two 
weeks  elapsed,  during  which  I  daily  expected  an  answer ; 
none  came.  I  felt  annoyed  at  the  delay,  as  I  had  particu- 
larly requested  a  speedy  reply.  This  very  morning  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  write  again,  when — what  do  you  think 
the  post  brought  me  ? ' 

'  I  should  like  to  know.' 

'  My  own  letter — actually  my  own — returned  from  the 
post-office  with  an  intimation — such  an  intimation  ! — but 
read  for  yourself.' 

She  handed  to  Mr.  Ellin  an  envelope ;  he  took  from  it 
the  returned  note  and  a  paper — the  paper  bore  a  hastily- 
scrawled  line  or  two.  It  said,  in  brief  terms,  that  there  was 
no  such  place  in  Midland  County  as  May  Park,  and  that  no 
such  person  had  ever  been  heard  of  there  as  Conway 
Fitzgibbon,  Esquire. 

On  reading  this  Mr.  Ellin  slightly  opened  his  eyes. 

'  I  hardly  thought  it  was  so  bad  as  this,'  said  he. 

'  What  ?  you  did  think  it  was  bad  then  ?  You  suspected 
that  something  was  wrong  ?  ' 

'  Keally  !  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  thought  or  suspected. 
How  very  odd,  no  such  place  as  May  Park  !  The  grand 
mansion,  the  grounds,  the  oaks,  the  deer,  vanished  clean 
away.  And  then  Fitzgibbon  himself !  But  you  saw 
Fitzgibbon — he  came  in  his  carriage  ?  ' 


296  EMMA 

1  In  his  carriage  ! '  echoed  Miss  Wilcox  ;  '  a  most  stylish 
equipage,  and  himself  a  most  distinguished  person.  Do  you 
think,  after  all,  there  is  some  mistake  ? ' 

'  Certainly,  a  mistake  ;  but  when  it  is  rectified  I  don't 
think  Fitzgihbon  or  May  Park  will  be  forthcoming.  Shall  I 
run  down  to  Midland  County  and  look  after  these  two 
precious  objects  ?  ' 

1  Oh !  would  you  be  so  good,  Mr.  Ellin  ?  I  knew  you 
would  be  so  kind ;  personal  inquiry,  you  know — there's 
nothing  like  it.' 

'  Nothing  at  all.  Meantime,  what  shall  you  do  with  the 
child— the  pseudo -heiress,  if  pseudo  she  be?  Shall  you 
correct  her— let  her  know  her  place  ?  ' 

'  I  think,'  responded  Miss  Wilcox,  reflectively — '  I  think 
not  exactly  as  yet ;  my  plan  is  to  do  nothing  in  a  hurry ;  we 
will  inquire  first.  If  after  all  she  should  turn  out  to  be 
connected  as  was  at  first  supposed,  one  had  better  not  do 
anything  which  one  might  afterwards  regret.  No  ;  I  shall 
make  no  difference  with  her  till  I  hear  from  you  again.' 

1  Very  good.  As  you  please,'  said  Mr.  Ellin,  with  that 
coolness  which  made  him  so  convenient  a  counsellor  in  Miss 
Wilcox's  opinion.  In  his  dry  laconism  she  found  the 
response  suited  to  her  outer  worldliness.  She  thought  he 
said  enough  if  he  did  not  oppose  her.  The  comment  he 
stinted  so  avariciously  she  did  not  want. 

Mr.  Ellin  '  ran  down,'  as  he  said,  to  Midland  County.  It 
was  an  errand  that  seemed  to  suit  him  ;  for  he  had  curious 
predilections  as  well  as  peculiar  methods  of  his  own.  Any 
secret  quest  was  to  his  taste ;  perhaps  there  was  something 
of  the  amateur  detective  in  him.  He  could  conduct  an 
inquiry  and  draw  no  attention.  His  quiet  face  never  looked 
inquisitive,  nor  did  his  sleepless  eye  betray  vigilance. 

He  was  away  about  a  week.  The  day  after  his  return 
he  appeared  in  Miss  Wilcox's  presence  as  cool  as  if  he  had 
seen  her  but  yesterday.  Confronting  her  with  that  fathom- 
less face  he  liked  to  show  her,  he  first  told  her  he  had  done 
nothing. 


EMMA  297 

Let  Mr.  Ellin  be  as  enigmatical  as  he  would,  he  never 
puzzled  Miss  Wilcox.  She  never  saw  enigma  in  the  man. 
Some  people  feared,  because  they  did  not  understand,  him  ; 
to  her  it  had  not  yet  occurred  to  begin  to  spell  his  nature  or 
analyse  his  character.  If  she  had  an  impression  about  him, 
it  was,  that  he  was  an  idle  but  obliging  man,  not  aggressive, 
of  few  words,  but  often  convenient.  Whether  he  were  clever 
and  deep,  or  deficient  and  shallow,  close  or  open,  odd  or 
ordinary,  she  saw  no  practical  end  to  be  answered  by  inquiry, 
and  therefore  did  not  inquire. 

'  Why  had  he  done  nothing  ? '  she  now  asked. 

'  Chiefly  because  there  was  nothing  to  do.' 

'  Then  he  could  give  her  no  information  ? ' 

1  Not  much  :  only  this,  indeed — Conway  Fitzgibbon  was 
a  man  of  straw ;  May  Park  a  house  of  cards.  There  was  no 
vestige  of  such  man  or  mansion  in  Midland  County,  or  in 
any  other  shire  in  England.  Tradition  herself  had  nothing 
to  say  about  either  the  name  or  the  place.  The  Oracle  of 
old  deeds  and  registers,  when  consulted,  had  not  responded.' 

1  Who  can  he  be,  then,  that  came  here,  and  who  is  this 
child  ? ' 

'  That's  just  what  I  can't  tell  you  : — an  incapacity  which 
makes  me  say  I  have  done  nothing.' 

'  And  how  am  I  to  get  paid  ?  ' 

'  Can't  tell  you  that  either.' 

'  A  quarter's  board  and  education  owing,  and  masters' 
terms  besides,'  pursued  Miss  Wilcox.  '  How  infamous ! 
I  can't  afford  the  loss.' 

'  And  if  we  were  only  in  the  good  old  times,'  said  Mr. 
Ellin,  '  where  we  ought  to  be,  you  might  just  send  Miss 
Matilda  out  to  the  plantations  in  Virginia,  sell  her  for  what 
she  is  worth,  and  pay  yourself.' 

1  Matilda,  indeed,  and  Fitzgibbon  !  A  little  impostor ! 
I  wonder  what  her  real  name  is  ?  ' 

'Betty  Hodge?  Poll  Smith?  Hannah  Jonea?' 
suggested  Mr.  Ellin. 

'  Now,'  cried  Miss  Wilcox,  '  give  me  credit  for  sagacity. 


298  EMMA 

It's  very  odd,  but  try  as  I  would — and  I  made  every  effoi't — 
I  never  could  really  like  that  child.  She  has  had  every 
indulgence  in  this  house ;  and  I  am  sure  I  made  great 
sacrifice  of  feeling  to  principle  in  showing  her  much  attention  ; 
for  I  could  not  make  anyone  believe  the  degree  of  antipathy 
I  have  all  along  felt  towards  her.' 

1  Yes.     I  can  believe  it.     I  saw  it.' 

'  Did  you  ?  Well — it  proves  that  my  discernment  is 
rarely  at  fault.  Her  game  is  up  now,  however  ;  and  time  it 
was.  I  have  said  nothing  to  her  yet ;  but  now — 

'  Have  her  in  whilst  I  am  here,'  said  Mr.  Ellin.  '  Has 
she  known  of  this  business  ?  Is  she  in  the  secret  ?  Is  she 
herself  an  accomplice,  or  a  mere  tool  ?  Have  her  in.' 

Miss  Wilcox  rang  the  bell,  demanded  Matilda  Fitzgibbon, 
and  the  false  heiress  soon  appeared.  She  came  in  her 
ringlets,  her  sash,  and  her  furbelowed  dress  adornments — 
alas  !  no  longer  acceptable. 

'  Stand  there  ! '  said  Miss  Wilcox,  sternly,  checking  her 
as  she  approached  the  hearth.  '  Stand  there  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  table.  I  have  a  few  questions  to  put  to  you,  and 
your  business  will  be  to  answer  them.  And  mind — let  us 
have  the  truth.  We  will  not  endure  lies.' 

Ever  since  Miss  Fitzgibbon  had  been  found  in  the  fit  her 
face  had  retained  a  peculiar  paleness  and  her  eyes  a  dark 
orbit.  When  thus  addressed  she  began  to  shake  and 
blanch  like  conscious  guilt  personified. 

'  Who  are  you  ?  '  demanded  Miss  Wilcox.  '  What  do 
you  know  about  yourself  ? ' 

A  sort  of  half-interjection  escaped  the  girl's  lips  ;  it  was  a 
sound  expressing  partly  fear,  and  partly  the  shock  the  nerves 
feel  when  an  evil,  very  long  expected,  at  last  and  suddenly 
arrives. 

'  Keep  yourself  still,  and  reply,  if  you  please,'  said  Miss 
Wilcox,  whom  nobody  should  blame  for  lacking  pity, 
because  nature  had  not  made  her  compassionate.  '  What  is 
your  name  ?  We  know  you  have  no  right  to  that  of  Matilda 
Fitzgibbon.' 


EMMA  299 

She  gave  no  answer. 

'  I  do  insist  upon  a  reply.  Speak  you  shall,  sooner  or 
later.  So  you  had  better  do  it  at  once.' 

This  inquisition  had  evidently  a  very  strong  effect  upon 
the  subject  of  it.  She  stood  as  if  palsied,  trying  to  speak, 
but  apparently  not  competent  to  articulate. 

Miss  Wilcox  did  not  fly  into  a  passion,  but  she  grew  very 
stern  and  urgent ;  spoke  a  little  loud  ;  and  there  was  a  dry 
clamour  in  her  raised  voice  which  seemed  to  beat  upon  the 
ear  and  bewilder  the  brain.  Her  interest  had  been  injured — 
her  pocket  wounded — she  was  vindicating  her  rights — and 
she  had  no  eye  to  see,  and  no  nerve  to  feel,  but  for  the 
point  in  hand.  Mr.  Ellin  appeared  to  consider  himself 
strictly  a  looker-on ;  he  stood  on  the  hearth  very  quiet. 

At  last  the  culprit  spoke.  A  low  voice  escaped  her  lips. 
'  Oh,  my  head  !  '  she  cried,  lifting  her  hands  to  her  forehead. 
She  staggered,  but  caught  the  door  and  did  not  fall.  Some 
accusers  might  have  been  startled  by  such  a  cry — even 
silenced  ;  not  so  Miss  Wilcox.  She  was  neither  cruel  nor 
violent ;  but  she  was  coarse,  because  insensible.  Having 
just  drawn  breath,  she  went  on,  harsh  as  ever. 

Mr.  Ellin,  leaving  the  hearth,  deliberately  paced  up  the 
room  as  if  he  were  tired  of  standing  still,  and  would  walk  a 
little  for  a  change.  In  returning  and  passing  near  the  door 
and  the  criminal,  a  faint  breath  seemed  to  seek  his  ear, 
whispering  his  name — 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Ellin  !  ' 

The  child  dropped  as  she  spoke.  A  curious  voice — not 
like  Mr.  Ellin's,  though  it  came  from  his  lips — asked  Miss 
Wilcox  to  cease  speaking,  and  say  no  more.  He  gathered 
from  the  floor  what  had  fallen  on  it.  She  seemed  overcome, 
but  not  unconscious.  Eesting  beside  Mr.  Ellin,  in  a  few 
minutes  she  again  drew  breath.  She  raised  her  eyes  to 
him. 

'  Come,  my  little  one  ;  have  no  fear,'  said  he. 

Reposing  her  head  against  him,  she  gradually  became 
reassured.  It  did  not  cost  him  another  word  to  bring  her 


300  EMMA 

round  ;  even  that  strong  trembling  was  calmed  by  the  mere 
effects  of  his  protection.  He  told  Miss  Wilcox,  with  remark- 
able tranquillity,  but  still  with  a  certain  decision,  that  the 
little  girl  must  be  put  to  bed.  He  carried  her  up-stairs, 
and  saw  her  laid  there  himself.  Returning  to  Miss  Wilcox, 
he  said,  '  Say  no  more  to  her.  Beware,  or  you  will  do  more 
mischief  than  you  think  or  wish.  That  kind  of  nature  is 
very  different  from  yours.  It  is  not  possible  that  you  should 
like  it ;  but  let  it  alone.  We  will  talk  more  on  the  subject 
to-moiTow.  Let  me  question  her.' 


POEMS 

BY 

CURREB,  ELLIS,   AND    ACTON    BELL 


Facwmile  of  the  Title-page  of  the  First  Edition. 


POEMS 


•T 


CURRER,    ELLIS,    AND  ACTON 
BELL, 


LONDON: 
AYLOTT  AND  JONES,  8,  PATERNOSTER- ROW 

1846. 


POEMS   BY  CURRER   BELL 


PILATE'S   WIFE'S   DEEAM 

I'VE  quench'd  my  lamp,  I  struck  it  in  that  start 
Which  every  limb  convulsed,  I  heard  it  fall — 

The  crash  blent  with  my  sleep,  I  saw  depart 
Its  light,  even  as  I  woke,  on  yonder  wall : 

Over  against  my  bed,  there  shone  a  gleam 

Strange,  faint,  and  mingling  also  with  my  dream. 

It  sank,  and  I  am  wrapt  in  utter  gloom  ; 

How  far  is  night  advanced,  and  when  will  day 
Re-tinge  the  dusk  and  livid  air  with  bloom, 

And  fill  this  void  with  warm,  creative  ray  ? 
Would  I  could  sleep  again  till,  clear  and  red, 
Morning  shall  on  the  mountain-tops  be  spread  ! 

I'd  call  my  women,  but  to  break  their  sleep, 
Because  my  own  is  broken,  were  unjust ; 

They've  wrought  all  day,  and  well-earn'd  slumbers  steep 
Their  labours  in  forgetfulness,  I  trust : 

Let  me  my  feverish  watch  with  patience  bear, 

Thankful  that  none  with  me  its  sufferings  share. 

Yet  oh  !  for  light !  one  ray  would  tranquillise 
My  nerves,  my  pulses,  more  than  effort  can ; 

I'll  draw  my  cm-tain  and  consult  the  skies : 

These  trembling  stars  at  dead  of  night  look  wan, 

Wild,  restless,  strange,  yet  cannot  be  more  drear 

Than  this  my  couch,  shared  by  a  nameless  fear. 


306       POEMS  BY  CUBBEB  BELL 

All  black — one  great  cloud,  drawn  from  east  to  west, 
Conceals  the  heavens,  but  there  are  lights  below ; 

Torches  burn  in  Jerusalem,  and  cast 
On  yonder  stony  mount  a  lurid  glow. 

I  see  men  station' d  there,  and  gleaming  spears  ; 

A  sound,  too,  from  afar,  invades  my  ears. 

Dull,  measured  strokes  of  axe  and  hammer  ring 

From  street  to  street,  not  loud,  but  through  the  night 

Distinctly  heard — and  some  strange  spectral  thing 
Is  now  uprear'd — and,  fix'd  against  the  light 

Of  the  pale  lamps,  denned  upon  that  sky, 

It  stands  up  like  a  column,  straight  and  high 

I  see  it  all — I  know  the  dusky  sign — 
A  cross  on  Calvary,  which  Jews  uprear 

While  Bomans  watch ;  and  when  the  dawn  shall  shine 
Pilate,  to  judge  the  victim,  will  appear — 

Pass  sentence — yield  Him  up  to  crucify  ; 

And  on  that  cross  the  spotless  Christ  must  die. 

Dreams,  then,  are  true — for  thus  my  vision  ran ; 

Surely  some  oracle  has  been  with  me, 
The  gods  have  chosen  me  to  reveal  their  plan, 

To  warn  an  unjust  judge  of  destiny : 
I,  slumbering,  heard  and  saw ;  awake  I  know, 
Christ's  coming  death,  and  Pilate's  life  of  woe. 

I  do  not  weep  for  Pilate — who  could  prove 
Begret  for  him  whose  cold  and  crushing  sway 

No  prayer  can  soften,  no  appeal  can  move ; 
Who  tramples  hearts  as  others  trample  olay, 

Yet  with  a  faltering,  an  uncertain  tread, 

That  might  stir  up  reprisal  in  the  dead. 

Forced  to  sit  by  his  side  and  see  his  deeds ; 

Forced  to  behold  that  visage,  hour  by  hour, 
In  whose  gaunt  lines  the  abhorrent  gazer  reads 

A  triple  lust  of  gold,  and  blood,  and  power ; 


PILATE'S   WIFE'S  DREAM  307 

A  soul  whom  motives  fierce,  yet  abject,  urge — 
Rome's  servile  slave,  and  Judah's  tyrant  scourge  , 

How  can  I  love,  or  mourn,  or  pity  him  ? 

I,  who  so  long  my  fetter'd  hands  have  wrung ; 
I,  who  for  grief  have  wept  my  eyesight  dim  ; 

Because,  while  life  for  me  was  bright  and  young, 
He  robb'd  my  youth — he  quench'd  my  life's  fair  ray — 
He  crush'd  my  mind,  and  did  my  freedom  slay. 

And  at  this  hour — although  I  be  his  wife — 

He  has  no  more  of  tenderness  from  me 
Than  any  other  wretch  of  guilty  life ; 

Less,  for  I  know  his  household  privacy — 
I  see  him  as  he  is — without  a  screen ; 
And,  by  the  gods,  my  soul  abhors  his  mien ! 

Has  he  not  sought  my  presence,  dyed  in  blood- 
Innocent,  righteous  blood,  shed  shamelessly  ? 

And  have  I  not  his  red  salute  withstood  ? 
Ay,  when,  as  erst,  he  plunged  all  Galilee 

In  dark  bereavement — in  affliction  sore, 

Mingling  their  very  offerings  with  their  gore. 

Then  came  he — in  his  eyes  a  serpent-smile, 
Upon  his  lips  some  false,  endearing  word, 

And  through  the  streets  of  Salem  clang'd  the  while 
His  slaughtering,  hacking,  sacrilegious  sword — 

And  I,  to  see  a  man  cause  men  such  woe, 

Trembled  with  ire — I  did  not  fear  to  show. 

And  now  the  envious  Jewish  priests  have  brought 
Jesus — whom  they  in  mock'ry  call  their  king — 

To  have,  by  this  grim  power,  their  vengeance  wrought : 
By  this  mean  reptile,  innocence  to  sting. 

Oh  !  could  I  but  the  purposed  doom  avert, 

And  shield  the  blameless  head  from  cruel  hurt ! 


308       POEMS  BY  CUREER  BELL 

Accessible  is  Pilate's  heart  to  fear, 

Omens  will  shake  his  soul,  like  autumn  leaf ; 

Could  he  this  night's  appalling  vision  hear, 

This  just  man's  bonds  were  loosed,  his  life  were  safe, 

Unless  that  bitter  priesthood  should  prevail, 

And  make  even  terror  to  their  malice  quail. 

Yet  if  I  tell  the  dream — but  let  me  pause. 

What  dream  ?     Erewhile  the  characters  were  clear, 
Graved  on  my  brain — at  once  some  unknown  cause 

Has  dimm'd  and  razed  the  thoughts,  which  now  appear, 
Like  a  vague  remnant  of  some  by-past  scene  ; — 
Not  what  will  be,  but  what,  long  since,  has  been. 

I  suffer'd  many  things — I  heard  foretold 

A  dreadful  doom  for  Pilate, — lingering  woes, 

In  far  barbarian  climes,  where  mountains  cold 
Built  up  a  solitude  of  trackless  snows  : 

There  he  and  grisly  wolves  prowl'd  side  by  side, 

There  he  lived  famish'd — there,  methought,  he  died ; 

But  not  of  hunger,  nor  by  malady ; 

I  saw  the  snow  around  him,  stain'd  with  gore  ; 
I  said  I  had  no  tears  for  such  as  he, 

And  lo  !  my  cheek  is  wet — mine  eyes  run  o'er. 
I  weep  for  mortal  suffering,  mortal  guilt, 
I  weep  the  impious  deed,  the  blood  self-spilt. 

More  I  recall  not,  yet  the  vision  spread 

Into  a  world  remote,  an  age  to  come — 
And  still  the  illumined  name  of  Jesus  shed 

A  light,  a  clearness,  through  the  unfolding  gloom—- 
And still  I  saw  that  sign,  which  now  I  see, 
That  cross  on  yonder  brow  of  Calvary. 

What  is  this  Hebrew  Christ  ? — to  me  unknown 
His  lineage — doctrine — mission ;  yet  how  clear 

Is  god-like  goodness  in  his  actions  shown, 

How  straight  and  stainless  is  his  life's  career  ! 


PILATE'S  WIFE'S  DBEAM  309 

The  ray  of  Deity  that  rests  on  him, 

In  my  eyes  makes  Olympian  glory  dim. 

The  world  advances ;  Greek  or  Roman  rite 

Suffices  not  the  inquiring  mind  to  stay ; 
The  searching  soul  demands  a  purer  light 

To  guide  it  on  its  upward,  onward  way  ; 
Ashamed  of  sculptured  gods,  Eeligion  turns 
To  where  the  unseen  Jehovah's  altar  burns. 

Our  faith  is  rotten,  all  our  rights  denied, 

Our  temples  sullied,  and,  methinks,  this  man, 
With  his  new  ordinance,  so  wise  and  mild, 

Is  come,  even  as  He  says,  the  chaff  to  fan 
And  sever  from  the  wheat ;  but  will  his  faith 
Survive  the  terrors  of  to-morrow's  death  ? 

*  #  *  *  # 

I  feel  a  firmer  trust — a  higher  hope 

Rise  in  my  soul — it  dawns  with  dawning  day ; 
Lo !  on  the  Temple's  roof — on  Moriah's  slope 

Appears  at  length  that  clear  and  crimson  ray 
Which  I  so  wished  for  when  shut  in  by  night ; 
Oh,  opening  skies,  I  hail,  I  bless  your  light ! 

Part,  clouds  and  shadows  !     Glorious  Sun  appear ! 

Part,  mental  gloom  !     Come  insight  from  on  high  ! 
Dusk  dawn  in  heaven  still  strives  with  daylight  clear 

The  longing  soul  doth  still  uncertain  sigh. 
Oh  !  to  behold  the  truth — that  sun  divine, 
How  doth  my  bosom  pant,  my  spirit  pine  ! 

This  day,  Time  travails  with  a  mighty  birth  ; 

This  day,  Truth  stoops  from  heaven  and  visits  earth ; 

Ere  night  descends  I  shall  more  surely  know 

What  guide  to  follow,  in  what  path  to  go  ; 

I  wait  in  hope — I  wait  in  solemn  fear, 

The  oracle  of  God — the  sole—  true  God — to  hear. 


310  POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

MEMENTOS 

ARRANGING  long-locked  drawers  and  shelves 

Of  cabinets  shut  up  for  years, 
What  a  strango  task  we've  set  ourselves ! 

How  still  the  lonely  room  appears  ! 
How  strange  this  mass  of  ancient  treasures, 
Mementos  of  past  pains  and  pleasures  ; 
These  volumes,  clasped  with  costly  stone, 
With  print  all  faded,  gilding  gone ; 

These  fans  of  leaves,  from  Indian  trees — 
These  crimson  shells,  from  Indian  seas — 
These  tiny  portraits,  set  in  rings — 
Once,  doubtless,  deemed  such  precious  things 
Keepsakes  bestowed  by  Love  on  Faith, 
And  worn  till  the  receiver's  death, 
Now  stored  with  cameos,  china,  shells, 
In  this  old  closet's  dusty  cells. 

I  scarcely  think,  for  ten  long  years, 
A  hand  has  touched  these  relics  old  ; 

And,  coating  each,  slow-formed,  appears 
The  growth  of  green  aud  antique  mould. 

All  in  this  house  is  mossing  over  ; 
All  is  unused,  and  dim,  and  damp ; 

Nor  light,  nor  warmth,  the  rooms  discover—- 
Bereft for  years  of  fire  and  lamp. 

The  sun,  sometimes  in  summer,  enters 
The  casements,  with  reviving  ray  ; 

But  the  long  rains  of  many  winters 
Moulder  the  very  walls  away. 

And  outside  all  is  ivy,  clinging 
To  chimney,  lattice,  gable  grey  ; 

Scarcely  one  little  red  rose  springing 

Through  the  green  moss  can  force  its  way. 


MEMENTOS  311 

Unseated,  the  daw  and  starling  nestle, 

Where  the  tall  turret  rises  high, 
And  winds  alone  come  near  to  rustle 

The  thick  leaves  where  their  cradles  lie. 

I  sometimes  think,  when  late  at  even 

I  climb  the  stair  reluctantly, 
Some  shape  that  should  be  well  in  heaven, 

Or  ill  elsewhere,  will  pass  by  me. 

I  fear  to  see  the  very  faces, 

Familiar  thirty  years  ago, 
Even  in  the  old  accustomed  places 

Which  look  so  cold  and  gloomy  now. 

I've  come,  to  close  the  window,  hither, 

At  twilight,  when  the  sun  was  down, 
And  Fear  my  very  soul  would  wither, 

Lest  something  should  be  dimly  shown, 

Too  much  the  buried  form  resembling, 

Of  her  who  once  was  mistress  here ; 
Lest  doubtful  shade,  or  moonbeam  trembling, 

Might  take  her  aspect,  once  so  dear. 

Hers  was  this  chamber  ;  in  her  time 

It  seemed  to  me  a  pleasant  room, 
For  then  no  cloud  of  grief  or  crime 

Had  cursed  it  with  a  settled  gloom ; 

I  had  not  seen  death's  image  laid 
In  shroud  and  sheet,  on  yonder  bed. 

Before  she  married,  she  was  blest — 
Blest  in  her  youth,  blest  in  her  worth  ; 

Her  mind  was  calm,  its  sunny  rest 
Shone  in  her  eyes  more  clear  than  mirth. 


312      POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

And  when  attii'ed  in  rich  array, 

Light,  lustrous  hair  about  her  brow, 
She  yonder  sat,  a  kind  of  day 

Lit  up  what  seems  so  gloomy  now. 
These  grim  oak  walls  even  then  were  grim  ; 

That  old  carved  chair  was  then  antique ; 
But  what  around  looked  dusk  and  dim 

Served  as  a  foil  to  her  fresh  cheek ; 
Her  neck  and  arms,  of  hue  so  fair, 

Byes  of  unclouded,  smiling  light ; 
Her  soft,  and  curled,  and  floating  hair, 

Gems  and  attire,  as  rainbow  bright. 

Reclined  in  yonder  deep  recess, 

Ofttimes  she  would,  at  evening,  lie 
Watching  the  sun  ;  she  seemed  to  bless 

With  happy  glance  the  glorious  sky. 
She  loved  such  scenes,  and  as  she  gazed, 

Her  face  evinced  her  spirit's  mood ; 
Beauty  or  grandeur  ever  raised 

In  her  a  deep-felt  gratitude. 

But  of  all  lovely  things,  she  loved 

A  cloudless  moon  on  summer  night ; 
Full  oft  have  I  impatience  proved 

To  see  how  long  her  still  delight 
Would  find  a  theme  in  reverie, 

Out  on  the  lawn,  or  where  the  trees 
Let  in  the  lustre  fitfully, 
As  their  boughs  parted  momently 

To  the  soft,  languid  summer  breeze. 
Alas !  that  she  should  e'er  have  flung 

Those  pure  though  lonely  joys  away  : 
Deceived  by  false  and  guileful  tongue, 
She  gave  her  hand,  then  suffered  wrong ; 
Oppressed,  ill-used,  she  faded  young, 

And  died  of  grief  by  slow  decay. 


MEMENTOS  313 

Open  that  casket — look  how  bright 
Those  jewels  flash  upon  the  sight ; 
The  brilliants  have  not  lost  a  ray 
Of  lustre  since  her  wedding-day. 
But  see — upon  that  pearly  chain — 
How  dim  lies  Time's  discolouring  stain 
I've  seen  that  by  her  daughter  worn  : 
For,  ere  she  died,  a  child  was  born  ; — 
A  child  that  ne'er  its  mother  knew, 
That  lone,  and  almost  friendless  grew; 
For,  ever,  when  its  step  drew  nigh, 
Averted  was  the  father's  eye ; 
And  then  a  life  impure  and  wild 
Made  him  a  stranger  to  his  child : 
Absorbed  in  vice,  he  little  cared 
On  what  she  did,  or  how  she  fared. 
The  love  withheld  she  never  sought, 
She  grew  uncherished — learnt  untaught ; 
To  her  the  inward  life  of  thought 

Full  soon  was  open  laid. 
I  know  not  if  her  friendlessness 
Did  sometimes  on  her  spirit  press, 

But  plaint  she  never  made. 
The  book-shelves  were  her  darling  treasure, 
She  rarely  seemed  the  time  to  measure 

While  she  could  read  alone. 
And  she  too  loved  the  twilight  wood, 
And  often,  in  her  mother's  mood, 

Away  to  yonder  hill  would  hie, 
Like  her,  to  watch  the  setting  sun, 
Or  see  the  stars  born,  one  by  one, 

Out  of  the  darkening  sky. 
Nor  would  she  leave  that  hill  till  night 
Trembled  from  pole  to  pole  with  light ; 

Even  then,  upon  her  homeward  way, 
Long — long  her  wandering  steps  delayed 


314      POEMS  BY  CUBKEK  BELL 

To  quit  the  sombre  forest  shade, 

Through  which  her  eerie  pathway  lay. 
You  ask  if  she  had  beauty's  grace  ? 
I  know  not — but  a  nobler  face 

My  eyes  have  seldom  seen  ; 
A  keen  and  fine  intelligence, 
And,  better  still,  the  truest  sense 

Were  in  her  speaking  mien. 
But  bloom  or  lustre  was  there  none, 
Only  at  moments  fitful  shone 

An  ardour  in  her  eye, 
That  kindled  on  her  cheek  a  flush, 
Warm  as  a  red  sky's  passing  blush 

And  quick  with  energy. 
Her  speech,  too,  was  not  common  speech, 
No  wish  to  shine,  or  aim  to  teach, 

Was  in  her  words  displayed  : 
She  still  began  with  quiet  sense, 
But  oft  the  force  of  eloquence 

Came  to  her  lips  in  aid  ; 
Language  and  voice  unconscious  changed, 
And  thoughts,  in  other  words  arranged, 

Her  fervid  soul  transfused 
Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard, 
And  transient  strength  and  ardour  stirred, 

In  minds  to  strength  unused  : 
Yet  in  gay  crowd  or  festal  glare, 
Grave  and  retiring  was  her  air ; 
'Twas  seldom,  save  with  me  alone, 
That  fire  of  feeling  freely  shone ; 
She  loved  not  awe's  nor  wonder's  gaze, 
Nor  even  exaggerated  praise, 
Nor  even  notice,  if  too  keen 
The  curious  gazer  searched  her  mien. 
Nature's  own  green  expanse  revealed 
The  world,  the  pleasures,  she  could  prize ; 
On  free  hill-side,  in  sunny  field, 
In  quiet  spots  by  woods  concealed, 


MEMENTOS  315 

Grew  wild  and  fresh  her  chosen  joys — 

Yet  Nature's  feelings  deeply  lay 
In  that  endowed  and  youthful  frame  ; 

Shrined  in  her  heart  and  hid  from  day, 
They  burned  unseen  with  silent  flame. 

In  youth's  first  search  for  mental  light, 
She  lived  but  to  reflect  and  learn, 

But  soon  her  mind's  maturer  might 
For  stronger  task  did  pant  and  yearn ; 

And  stronger  task  did  fate  assign, 
Task  that  a  giant's  strength  might  strain ; 

To  suffer  long  and  ne'er  repine, 
Be  calm  in  frenzy,  smile  at  pain. 

Pale  with  the  secret  war  of  feeling, 

Sustained  with  courage,  mute  yet  high, 

The  wounds  at  which  she  bled  revealing 
Only  by  altered  cheek  and  eye ; 

She  bore  in  silence — but  when  passion 
Surged  in  her  soul  with  ceaseless  foam, 

The  storm  at  last  brought  desolation, 
And  drove  her  exiled  from  her  home; 

And  silent  still,  she  straight  assembled 
The  wrecks  of  strength  her  soul  retained  ; 

For  though  the  wasted  body  trembled, 

The  unconquered  mind,  to  quail,  disdained. 

She  crossed  the  sea — now  lone  she  wanders 
By  Seine's,  or  Rhine's,  or  Arno's  flow : 

Fain  would  I  know  if  distance  renders 
Eelief  or  comfort  to  her  woe. 

Fain  would  I  know  if,  henceforth,  ever, 

These  eyes  shall  read  in  hers  again, 
That  light  of  love  which  faded  never, 

Though  dimmed  so  long  with  secret  pain. 


316       POEMS  BY  CUKREB  BELL 

She  will  return,  but  cold  and  altered, 
Like  all  whose  hopes  too  soon  depart ; 

Like  all  on  whom  have  beat,  unsheltered, 
The  bitter  blasts  that  blight  the  heart. 

No  more  shall  I  behold  her  lying 
Calm  on  a  pillow,  smoothed  by  me ; 

No  more  that  spirit,  worn  with  sighing, 
Will  know  the  rest  of  infancy. 

If  still  the  paths  of  lore  she  follow, 
'Twill  be  with  tired  and  goaded  will ; 

She'll  only  toil,  the  aching  hollow, 
The  joyless  blank  of  life  to  fill. 

And  oh  !  full  oft,  quite  spent  and  weary, 
Her  hand  will  pause,  her  head  decline ; 

That  labour  seems  so  hard  and  dreary, 
On  which  no  ray  of  hope  may  shine. 

Thus  the  pale  blight  of  time  and  sorrow 
"Will  shade  with  grey  her  soft,  dark  hair ; 

Then  comes  the  day  that  knows  no  morrow, 
And  death  succeeds  to  long  despair. 

So  speaks  experience,  sage  and  hoary  ; 

I  see  it  plainly,  know  it  well, 
Like  one  who,  having  read  a  story, 

Each  incident  therein  can  tell. 

Touch  not  that  ring  ;  'twas  his,  the  sire 

Of  that  forsaken  child  ; 
And  nought  his  relics  can  inspire 

Save  memories  sin-defiled. 

I,  who  sat  by  his  wife's  death-bed, 

I,  who  his  daughter  loved, 
Could  almost  curse  the  guilty  dead, 

For  woes  the  guiltless  proved. 


MEMENTOS  317 

And  heaven  did  curse — they  found  him  laid, 

When  crime  for  wrath  was  rife, 
Cold — with  the  suicidal  blade 

Clutched  in  his  desperate  gripe. 

'Twas  near  that  long-deserted  hut, 

Which  in  the  wood  decays, 
Death's  axe,  self-wielded,  struck  his  root, 

And  lopped  his  desperate  days. 

You  know  the  spot,  where  three  black  trees, 

Lift  up  their  branches  fell, 
And  moaning,  ceaseless  as  the  seas, 
Still  seem,  in  every  passing  breeze, 

The  deed  of  blood  to  tell. 

They  named  him  mad,  and  laid  his  bones 

Where  holier  ashes  lie  ; 
Yet  doubt  not  that  his  spirit  groans 

In  hell's  eternity. 

But,  lo  !  night,  closing  o'er  the  earth, 

Infects  our  thoughts  with  gloom  ; 
Come,  let  us  strive  to  rally  mirth 
Where  glows  a  clear  and  tranquil  hearth 

In  some  more  cheerful  room. 


THE   WIFE'S   WILL 

SIT  still — a  word— a  breath  may  break 
(As  light  airs  stir  a  sleeping  lake) 
The  glassy  calm  that  soothes  my  woes — 
The  sweet,  the  deep,  the  full  repose. 
O  leave  me  not !  for  ever  be 
Thus,  more  than  life  itself  to  me  ! 


318       POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

Yes,  close  beside  thee  let  me  kneel — 
Give  me  thy  hand,  that  I  may  feel 
The  friend  so  true — so  tried — so  dear, 
My  heart's  own  chosen — indeed  is  near ; 
And  check  me  not — this  hour  divine 
Belongs  to  me — is  fully  mine. 

'Tis  thy  own  hearth  thou  sitt'st  beside, 
After  long  absence — wandering  wide ; 
'Tis  thy  own  wife  reads  in  thine  eyes 
A  promise  clear  of  stormless  skies ; 
For  faith  and  true  love  light  the  rays 
Which  shine  responsive  to  her  gaze. 

Ay, — well  that  single  tear  may  fall ; 
Ten  thousand  might  mine  eyes  recall, 
Which  from  their  lids  ran  blinding  fast, 
In  hours  of  grief,  yet  scarcely  past ; 
Well  may'st  thou  speak  of  love  to  me, 
For,  oh  !  most  truly — I  love  thee  ! 

Yet  smile — for  we  are  happy  now. 
Whence,  then,  that  sadness  on  thy  brow? 
What  sayest  thou  ?     '  We  must  once  again, 
Ere  long,  be  severed  by  the  main  ! ' 
I  knew  not  this — I  deemed  no  more 
Thy  step  would  err  from  Britain's  shore. 

'  Duty  commands  ! '     'Tis  true — 'tis  just ; 
Thy  slightest  word  I  wholly  trust, 
Nor  by  request,  nor  faintest  sigh, 
Would  I  to  turn  thy  purpose  try ; 
But,  William,  hear  my  solemn  vow — 
Hear  and  confirm  ! — with  thee  I  go. 

'  Distance  and  suffering,'  didst  thou  say? 
1  Danger  by  night,  and  toil  by  day  ?  ' 


THE  WIFE'S  WILL  319 

Oh,  idle  words  and  vain  are  these  ; 
Hear  me !     I  cross  with  thee  the  seas. 
Such  risk  as  thou  must  meet  and  dare, 
I — thy  true  wife — will  duly  share. 

Passive,  at  home,  I  will  not  pine ; 
Thy  toils,  thy  perils  shall  be  mine  ; 
Grant  this — and  be  hereafter  paid 
By  a  warm  heart's  devoted  aid : 
'Tis  granted — with  that  yielding  kiss, 
Entered  my  soul  unmingled  bliss. 

Thanks,  William,  thanks  !  thy  love  has  joy 
Pure,  undenled  with  base  alloy ! 
'Tis  not  a  passion,  false  and  blind, 
Inspires,  enchains,  absorbs  my  mind ; 
Worthy,  I  feel,  art  thou  to  be 
Loved  with  my  perfect  energy. 

This  evening  now  shall  sweetly  flow, 
Lit  by  our  clear  fire's  happy  glow  ; 
And  parting's  peace-embittering  fear 
Is  warned  our  hearts  to  come  not  near ; 
For  fate  admits  my  soul's  decree, 
In  bliss  or  bale — to  go  with  thee ! 


THE   WOOD 

BUT  two  miles  more,  and  then  we  rest ! 

Well,  there  is  still  an  hour  of  day, 
And  long  the  brightness  of  the  West 

Will  light  us  on  our  devious  way ; 
Sit  then,  awhile,  here  in  this  wood — 
So  total  is  the  solitude, 

We  safely  may  delay. 


320      POEMS  BY  CUEKER  BELL 

These  massive  roots  afford  a  seat, 

Which  seems  for  weary  travellers  made. 

There  rest.    The  air  is  soft  and  sweet 
In  this  sequestered  forest  glade, 

And  there  are  scents  of  flowers  around, 

The  evening  dew  draws  from  the  ground ; 
How  soothingly  they  spread  ! 

Yes ;  I  was  tired,  but  not  at  heart ; 

No — that  beats  full  of  sweet  content, 
For  now  I  have  my  natural  part 

Of  action  with  adventure  blent ; 
Cast  forth  on  the  wide  world  with  thee, 
And  all  my  once  waste  energy 
To  weighty  purpose  bent. 

Yet — say'st  thou,  spies  around  us  roam, 
Our  aims  are  termed  conspiracy  ? 

Haply,  no  more  our  English  home 
An  anchorage  for  us  may  be  ? 

That  there  is  risk  our  mutual  blood 

May  redden  in  some  lonely  wood 
The  knife  of  treachery  i 

Say'st  thou,  that  where  we  lodge  each  night, 
In  each  lone  farm,  or  lonelier  hall 

Of  Norman  Peer — ere  morning  light 
Suspicion  must  as  duly  fall, 

As  day  returns — such  vigilance 

Presides  and  watches  over  France, 
Such  rigour  governs  all  ? 

I  fear  not,  William  ;  dost  thou  fear? 

So  that  the  knife  does  not  divide, 
It  may  be  ever  hovering  near : 

I  could  not  tremble  at  thy  side, 


THE  WOOD  321 

And  strenuous  love — like  mine  for  thee — 
Is  buckler  strong  'gainst  treachery, 
And  turns  its  stab  aside. 


I  am  resolved  that  thou  shalt  learn 
To  trust  my  strength  as  I  trust  thine  ; 

I  am  resolved  our  souls  shall  burn 
With  equal,  steady,  mingling  shine  ; 

Part  of  the  field  is  conquered  now, 

Our  lives  in  the  same  channel  flow, 
Along  the  self-same  line  ; 

And  while  no  groaning  storm  is  heard, 
Thou  seem'st  content  it  should  be  so, 

But  soon  as  comes  a  warning  word 

Of  danger — straight  thine  anxious  brow 

Bends  over  me  a  mournful  shade, 

As  doubting  if  my  powers  are  made 
To  ford  the  floods  of  woe. 

Know,  then  it  is  my  spirit  swells, 
And  drinks,  with  eager  joy,  the  air 

Of  freedom — where  at  last  it  dwells, 
Chartered,  a  common  task  to  share 

With  thee,  and  then  it  stirs  alert, 

And  pants  to  learn  what  menaced  hurt 
Demands  for  thee  its  care. 

Remember,  I  have  crossed  the  deep, 
And  stood  with  thee  on  deck,  to  gaze 

On  waves  that  rose  in  threatening  heap, 
While  stagnant  lay  a  heavy  haze, 

Dimly  confusing  sea  with  sky, 

And  baffling,  even,  the  pilot's  eye, 
Intent  to  thread  the  maze — 


322      POEMS  BY  CUBBER  BELL 

Of  rocks,  on  Bretagne's  dangerous  coast, 
And  find  a  way  to  steer  our  band 

To  the  one  point  obscure,  which  lost, 
Flung  us,  as  victims,  on  the  strand ; — 

All,  elsewhere,  gleamed  the  Gallic  sword, 

And  not  a  wherry  could  be  moored 
Along  the  guarded  land. 

I  feared  not  then — I  fear  not  now  ; 

The  interest  of  each  stirring  scene 
Wakes  a  new  sense,  a  welcome  glow, 

In  every  nerve  and  bounding  vein  ; 
Alike  on  turbid  Channel  sea, 
Or  in  still  wood  of  Normandy, 
I  feel  as  born  again. 

The  rain  descended  that  wild  morn 
When,  anchoring  hi  the  cove  at  last, 

Our  band,  all  weary  and  forlorn, 

Ashore,  like  wave-worn  sailors,  cast — 

Sought  for  a  sheltering  roof  in  vain, 

And  scarce  could  scanty  food  obtain 
To  break  their  morning  fast. 

Thou  didst  thy  crust  with  me  divide, 
Thou  didst  thy  cloak  around  me  fold  ; 

And,  sitting  silent  by  thy  side, 
I  ate  the  bread  in  peace  untold  : 

Given  kindly  from  thy  hand,  'twas  sweet 

As  costly  fare  or  princely  treat 
On  royal  plate  of  gold. 

Sharp  blew  the  sleet  upon  my  face, 
And,  rising  wild,  the  gusty  wind 

Drove  on  those  thundering  waves  apace, 
Our  crew  so  late  had  left  behind  : 


THE   WOOD  323 

But,  spite  of  frozen  shower  and  storm, 
So  close  to  thee,  my  heart  beat  warm, 
And  tranquil  slept  my  mind. 


So  now — nor  foot-sore  nor  opprest 
With  walking  all  this  August  day, 

I  taste  a  heaven  in  this  brief  rest, 
This  gipsy-halt  beside  the  way. 

England's  wild  flowers  are  fair  to  view, 

Like  balm  is  England's  summer  dew, 
Like  gold  her  sunset  ray. 

But  the  white  violets,  growing  here, 
Are  sweeter  than  I  yet  have  seen, 

And  ne'er  did  dew  so  pure  and  clear 
Distil  on  forest  mosses  green, 

As  now,  called  forth  by  summer  heat, 

Perfumes  our  cool  and  fresh  retreat — 
These  fragrant  limes  between. 

That  sunset !     Look  beneath  the  boughs, 
Over  the  copse — beyond  the  hills  ; 

How  soft,  yet  deep  and  warm,  it  glows, 
And  heaven  with  rich  suffusion  fills  ; 

With  hues  where  still  the  opal's  tint, 

Its  gleam  of  prisoned  fire,  is  blent, 

Where  flame  through  azure  thrills ! 

Depart  we  now — for  fast  will  fade 
That  solemn  splendour  of  decline, 

And  deep  must  be  the  after-shade, 
As  stars  alone  to-night  will  shine ; 

No  moon  is  destined — pale — to  gaze 

On  such  a  day's  vast  phoenix  blaze, 
A  day  in  fires  decayed  ! 


324      POEMS  BY  CURREK  BELL 

There — hand -in -hand  we  tread  again 
The  mazes  of  this  varying  wood, 

And  soon,  amid  a  cultured  plain, 
Girt  in  with  fertile  solitude, 

We  shall  our  resting-place  descry, 

Marked  by  one  roof-tree,  towering  high 
Above  a  farmstead  rude. 

Refreshed,  ere  long,  with  rustic  fare, 
We'll  seek  a  couch  of  dreamless  ease  ; 

Courage  will  guard  thy  heart  from  fear, 
And  Love  give  mine  divinest  peace : 

To-morrow  brings  more  dangerous  toil, 

And  through  its  conflict  and  turmoil 
We'll  pass,  as  God  shall  please. 

The  preceding  composition  refers,  doubtless,  to  the  scenes  acted  in 
France  during  the  last  year  of  the  Consulate. — C.  B. 


FRANCES 

SHE  will  not  sleep,  for  fear  of  dreams, 
But,  rising,  quits  her  restless  bed, 

And  walks  where  some  beclouded  beams 
Of  moonlight  through  the  hall  are  shed. 

Obedient  to  the  goad  of  grief, 

Her  steps,  now  fast,  now  lingering  slow, 
In  varying  motion  seek  relief 

From  the  Eumenides  of  woe. 

Wringing  her  hands,  at  intervals — 
But  long  as  mute  as  phantom  dim — 

She  glides  along  the  dusky  walls, 
Under  the  black  oak  rafters  grim. 


FKANCES  325 

The  close  air  of  the  grated  tower 

Stifles  a  heart  that  scarce  can  beat, 
And,  though  so  late  and  lone  the  hour, 

Forth  pass  her  wandering,  faltering  feet ; 

And  on  the  pavement  spread  before 

The  long  front  of  the  mansion  grey, 
Her  steps  imprint  the  night-frost  hoar, 

Which  pale  on  grass  and  granite  lay. 

Not  long  she  stayed  where  misty  moon 
And  shimmering  stars  could  on  her  look, 

But  through  the  garden  archway  soon 
Her  strange  and  gloomy  path  she  took. 

Some  firs,  coeval  with  the  tower, 

Their  straight  black  boughs  stretched  o'er  her  head  ; 
Unseen,  beneath  this  sable  bower, 

Rustled  her  dress  and  rapid  tread. 

There  was  an  alcove  in  that  shade, 

Screening  a  rustic  seat  and  stand  ; 
Weary  she  sat  her  down,  and  laid 

Her  hot  brow  on  her  burning  hand. 

To  solitude  and  to  the  night 

Some  words  she  now,  in  murmurs,  said  ; 
And  trickling  through  her  fingers  white, 

Some  tears  of  misery  she  shed. 

'  God  help  me  in  my  grievous  need, 

God  help  me  in  my  inward  pain  ; 
Which  cannot  ask  for  pity's  meed, 

Which  has  no  licence  to  complain  ; 

'  Which  must  be  borne  ;  yet  who  can  bear, 
Hours  long,  days  long,  a  constant  weight — 

The  yoke  of  absolute  despair, 
A  suffering  wholly  desolate  ? 


326  POEMS  BY  CUEEEE  BELL 

'  Who  can  for  ever  crush  the  heart, 
Eestrain  its  throbbing,  curb  its  life  ? 

Dissemble  truth  with  ceaseless  art, 

With  outward  calm  mask  inward  strife  ? ' 

She  waited — as  for  some  reply  ; 

The  still  and  cloudy  night  gave  none ; 
Ere  long,  with  deep-drawn,  trembling  sigh, 

Her  heavy  plaint  again  begun. 

'  Unloved — I  love  ;  unwept — I  weep  ; 

Grief  I  restrain — hope  I  repress : 
Vain  is  this  anguish — fixed  and  deep ; 

Vainer,  desires  and  dreams  of  bliss  : 

'  My  love  awakes  no  love  again, 
My  tears  collect,  and  fall  unfelt ; 

My  sorrow  touches  none  with  pain, 
My  humble  hopes  to  nothing  melt. 

'  For  me  the  universe  is  dumb, 

Stone-deaf,  and  blank,  and  wholly  blind  ; 

Life  I  must  bound,  existence  sum 
In  the  strait  limits  of  one  mind  ; 

'  That  mind  my  own.     Oh  !  narrow  cell ; 

Dark — imageless — a  living  tomb  ! 
There  must  I  sleep,  there  wake  and  dwell 

Content,  with  palsy,  pain,  and  gloom.' 

Again  she  paused ;  a  moan  of  pain, 
A  stifled  sob,  alone  was  heard ; 

Long  silence  followed — then  again 

Her  voice  the  stagnant  midnight  stirred  : 

'  Must  it  be  so  ?     Is  this  my  fate  ? 

Can  I  nor  struggle,  nor  contend  ? 
And  am  I  doomed  for  years  to  wait, 

Watching  death's  lingering  axe  descend  ? 


FRANCES  327 

'  And  when  it  falls,  and  when  I  die, 
What  follows  ?    Vacant  nothingness  ? 

The  blank  of  lost  identity  ? 

Erasure  both  of  pain  and  bliss  ? 

1  I've  heard  of  heaven — I  would  believe ; 

For  if  this  earth  indeed  be  all, 
Who  longest  lives  may  deepest  grieve  ; 

Most  blest,  whom  sorrows  soonest  call. 

1  Oh  !  leaving  disappointment  here, 
Will  man  find  hope  on  yonder  coast  ? 

Hope,  which,  on  earth,  shines  never  clear, 
And  oft  in  clouds  is  wholly  lost. 

'  Will  he  hope's  source  of  light  behold, 
Fruition's  spring,  where  doubts  expire, 

And  drink,  in  waves  of  living  gold, 
Contentment,  full,  for  long  desire  ? 

'  Will  he  find  bliss,  which  here  he  dreamed  ? 

Rest,  which  was  weariness  on  earth  ? 
Knowledge,  which,  if  o'er  life  it  beamed, 

Served  but  to  prove  it  void  of  worth  ? 

'  Will  he  find  love  without  lust's  leaven, 

Love  fearless,  tearless,  perfect,  pure, 
To  all  with  equal  bounty  given  ; 

In  all,  unfeigned,  unfailing,  sure  ? 

'  Will  he,  from  penal  sufferings  free, 
Released  from  shroud  and  wormy  clod, 

All  calm  and  glorious,  rise  and  see 
Creation's  Sire — Existence'  God? 

'  Then,  glancing  back  on  Time's  brief  woes, 

Will  he  behold  them,  fading,  fly ; 
Swept  from  Eternity's  repose, 

Like  sullying  cloud  from  pure  blue  sky  ? 


328  POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

'  If  so,  endure,  my  weary  frame  ; 

And  when  thy  anguish  strikes  too  deep, 
And  when  all  troubled  burns  life's  flame, 

Think  of  the  quiet,  final  sleep ; 

'  Think  of  the  glorious  waking-hour, 
Which  will  not  dawn  on  grief  and  tears, 

But  on  a  ransomed  spirit's  power, 
Certain  and  free  from  mortal  fears. 

'  Seek  now  thy  couch,  and  lie  till  morn, 
Then  from  thy  chamber,  calm,  descend, 

With  mind  nor  tossed,  nor  anguish-torn, 
But  tranquil,  fixed,  to  wait  the  end. 

'  And  when  thy  opening  eyes  shall  see 
Mementos  on  the  chamber  wall, 

Of  one  who  has  forgotten  thee, 
Shed  not  the  tear  of  acrid  gall. 

'  The  tear  which,  welling  from  the  heart, 
Burns  where  its  drop  corrosive  falls, 

And  makes  each  nerve  in  torture  start, 
At  feelings  it  too  well  recalls  : 

'  When  the  sweet  hope  of  being  loved 
Threw  Eden  sunshine  on  life's  way  ; 

When  every  sense  and  feeling  proved 
Expectancy  of  brightest  day  : 

'  When  the  hand  trembled  to  receive 
A  thrilling  clasp,  which  seemed  so  near, 

And  the  heart  ventured  to  believe 
Another  heart  esteemed  it  dear : 

'  When  words,  half  love,  all  tenderness, 
Were  hourly  heard,  as  hourly  spoken, 

When  the  long  sunny  days  of  bliss 

Only  by  moonlight  nights  were  broken  : 


FRANCES  329 

'  Till,  drop  by  drop,  the  cup  of  joy, 

Filled  full,  with  purple  light  was  glowing, 

And  Faith,  which  watched  it  sparkling  high, 
Still  never  dreamt  the  overflowing. 

1  It  fell  not  with  a  sudden  crashing, 

It  poured  not  out  like  open  sluice ; 
No,  sparkling  still,  and  redly  flashing, 

Drained,  drop  by  drop,  the  generous  juice. 

'  I  saw  it  sink,  and  strove  to  taste  it — 

My  eager  lips  approached  the  brim ; 
The  movement  only  seemed  to  waste  it — 

It  sank  to  dregs,  all  harsh  and  dim. 

'  These  I  have  drunk,  and  they  for  ever 

Have  poisoned  life  and  love  for  me  ; 
A  draught  from  Sodom's  lake  could  never 

More  fiery,  salt,  and  bitter  be. 

'  Oh  !  Love  was  all  a  thin  illusion  ; 

Joy  but  the  desert's  flying  stream ; 
And  glancing  back  on  long  delusion, 

My  memory  grasps  a  hollow  dream. 

1  Yet  whence  that  wondrous  change  of  feeling, 

I  never  knew,  and  cannot  learn ; 
Nor  why  my  lover's  eye,  congealing, 

Grew  cold  and  clouded,  proud  and  stern. 

1  Nor  wherefore,  friendship's  forms  forgetting, 

He  careless  left  and  cool  withdrew, 
Nor  spoke  of  grief  nor  fond  regretting, 

Nor  ev'n  one  glance  of  comfort  threw. 

'  And  neither  word  nor  token  sending, 

Of  kindness,  since  the  parting  day, 
His  course,  for  distant  regions  bending, 

Went,  self-contained  and  calm,  away. 


330  POEMS  BY   CURRER  BELL 

'  0  bitter,  blighting,  keen  sensation, 
Which  will  not  weaken,  cannot  die, 

Hasten  thy  work  of  desolation, 
And  let  my  tortured  spirit  fly  ! 

'  Vain  as  the  passing  gale,  my  crying ; 

Though  lightning-struck,  I  must  live  on ; 
I  know  at  heart  there  is  no  dying 

Of  love,  and  ruined  hope,  alone. 

'  Still  strong  and  young,  and  warm  with  vigour, 
Though  scathed,  I  long  shall  greenly  grow  ; 

And  many  a  storm  of  wildest  rigour 
Shall  yet  break  o'er  my  shivered  bough. 

'  Rebellious  now  to  blank  inertion, 
My  unused  strength  demands  a  task; 

Travel,  and  toil,  and  full  exertion 
Are  the  last,  only  boon  I  ask. 

'  Whence,  then,  this  vain  and  barren  dreaming 
Of  death,  and  dubious  life  to  come  ? 

I  see  a  nearer  beacon  gleaming 
Over  dejection's  sea  of  gloom. 

'  The  very  wildness  of  my  sorrow 
Tells  me  I  yet  have  innate  force  ; 

My  track  of  life  has  been  too  narrow, 
Effort  shall  trace  a  broader  course. 

1  The  world  is  not  in  yonder  tower, 
Earth  is  not  prisoned  in  that  room, 

Mid  whose  dark  panels,  hour  by  hour, 
I've  sat,  the  slave  and  prey  of  gloom. 

1  One  feeling — turned  to  utter  anguish, 

Is  not  my  being's  only  aim  ; 
When,  lorn  and  loveless,  life  will  languish 

But  courage  can  revive  the  flame. 


FBANCES  331 

•  He,  when  he  left  me,  went  a-roving 

To  sunny  climes  beyond  the  sea ; 
And  I,  the  weight  of  woe  removing, 

Am  free  and  fetterless  as  he. 

'  New  scenes,  new  language,  skies  less  clouded, 
May  once  more  wake  the  wish  to  live ; 

Strange  foreign  towns,  astir  and  crowded, 
New  pictures  to  the  mind  may  give. 

1  New  forms  and  faces,  passing  ever, 

May  hide  the  one  I  still  retain, 
Denned  and  fixed,  and  fading  never, 

Stamped  deep  on  vision,  heart,  and  brain. 

'  And  we  might  meet — time  may  have  changed  him, 

Chance  may  reveal  the  mystery, 
The  secret  influence  which  estranged  him ; 

Love  may  restore  him  yet  to  me. 

1  False  thought — false  hope — in  scorn  be  banished ! 

I  am  not  loved — nor  loved  have  been ; 
Recall  not,  then,  the  dreams  scarce  vanished  ; 

Traitors !  mislead  me  not  again  ! 

'  To  words  like  yours  I  bid  defiance, 
'Tis  such  my  mental  wreck  have  made ; 

Of  God  alone,  and  self-reliance, 
I  ask  for  solace — hope  for  aid. 

'  Morn  comes — and  ere  meridian  glory 
O'er  these,  my  natal  woods,  shall  smile, 

Both  lonely  wood  and  mansion  hoary 
I'll  leave  behind,  full  many  a  mile.' 


332       POEMS  BY  CUEBEE  BELL 


GILBEET 

I. — THE   GARDEN 

ABOVE  the  city  hung  the  moon, 

Eight  o'er  a  plot  of  ground 
Where  flowers  and  orchard-trees  were  fenced 

With  lofty  walls  around : 
'Twas  Gilbert's  garden — there  to-night 

Awhile  he  walked  alone  ; 
And,  tired  with  sedentary  toil, 

Mused  where  the  moonlight  shone. 

This  garden,  in  a  city  heart, 

Lay  still  as  houseless  wild, 
Though  many-windowed  mansion  fronts 

Were  round  it  closely  piled  ; 
But  thick  their  walls,  and  those  within 

Lived  lives  by  noise  unstirred  ; 
Like  wafting  of  an  angel's  wing, 

Time's  flight  by  them  was  heard. 

Some  soft  piano-notes  alone 

Were  sweet  as  faintly  given, 
Where  ladies,  doubtless,  cheered  the  hearth 

With  song  that  winter-even. 
The  city's  many-mingled  sounds 

Eose  like  the  hum  of  ocean  ; 
They  rather  lulled  the  heart  than  roused 

Its  pulse  to  faster  motion. 

Gilbert  has  paced  the  single  walk 

An  hour,  yet  is  not  weary  ; 
And,  though  it  be  a  winter  night, 

He  feels  nor  cold  nor  dreary. 


GILBERT  333 

The  prime  of  life  is  in  his  veins, 
And  sends  his  blood  fast  flowing, 

And  Fancy's  fervour  warms  the  thoughts 
Now  in  his  bosom  glowing. 

Those  thoughts  recur  to  early  love, 

Or  what  he  love  would  name, 
Though  haply  Gilbert's  secret  deeds 

Might  other  title  claim. 
Such  theme  not  oft  his  mind  absorbs, 

He  to  the  world  clings  fast, 
And  too  much  for  the  present  lives, 

To  linger  o'er  the  past. 

But  now  the  evening's  deep  repose 

Has  glided  to  his  soul ; 
That  moonlight  falls  on  Memory, 

And  shows  her  fading  scroll. 
One  name  appears  in  every  line 

The  gentle  rays  shine  o'er, 
And  still  he  smiles  and  still  repeats 

That  one  name — Elinor. 

There  is  no  sorrow  in  his  smile, 

No  kindness  in  his  tone ; 
The  triumph  of  a  selfish  heart 

Speaks  coldly  there  alone. 
He  says  :  '  She  loved  me  more  than  life ; 

And  truly  it  was  sweet 
To  see  so  fair  a  woman  kneel 

In  bondage  at  my  feet. 

1  There  was  a  sort  of  quiet  bliss 

To  be  so  deeply  loved, 
To  gaze  on  trembling  eagerness 

And  sit  myself  unmoved ; 


334      POEMS  BY  CUBKER  BELL 

And  when  it  pleased  my  pride  to  grant 
At  last  some  rare  caress, 

To  feel  the  fever  of  that  hand 
My  fingers  deigned  to  press. 

'  'Twas  sweet  to  see  her  strive  to  hide 

What  every  glance  revealed  ; 
Endowed,  the  while,  with  despot-might 

Her  destiny  to  wield. 
I  knew  myself  no  perfect  man, 

Nor,  as  she  deemed,  divine ; 
I  knew  that  I  was  glorious — but 

By  her  reflected  shine ; 

'  Her  youth,  her  native  energy, 

Her  powers  new-born  and  fresh — 
'Twas  these  with  Godhead  sanctified 

My  sensual  frame  of  flesh. 
Yet,  like  a  god  did  I  descend 

At  last  to  meet  her  love  ; 
And,  like  a  god,  I  then  withdrew 

To  my  own  heaven  above. 

'  And  never  more  could  she  invoke 

My  presence  to  her  sphere  ; 
No  prayer,  no  plaint,  no  cry  of  hers 

Could  win  my  awful  ear. 
I  knew  her  blinded  constancy 

Would  ne'er  my  deeds  betray, 
And,  calm  in  conscience,  whole  in  heart, 

I  went  my  tranquil  way. 

'  Yet,  sometimes,  I  still  feel  a  wish, 
The  fond  and  flattering  pain 

Of  passion's  anguish  to  create 
In  her  young  breast  again. 


GILBERT  335 

Bright  was  the  lustre  of  her  eyes 

When  they  caught  fire  from  mine ; 
If  I  had  power — this  very  hour, 

Again  I'd  light  their  shine. 

1  But  where  she  is,  or  how  she  lives, 

I  have  no  clue  to  know ; 
I've  heard  she  long  my  absence  pined, 

And  left  her  home  in  woe. 
But  busied,  then,  in  gathering  gold, 

As  I  am  busied  now, 
I  could  not  turn  from  such  pursuit, 

To  weep  a  broken  vow. 

1  Nor  could  I  give  to  fatal  risk 

The  fame  I  ever  prized ; 
Even  now,  I  fear,  that  precious  fame 

Is  too  much  compromised.' 
An  inward  trouble  dims  his  eye, 

Some  riddle  he  would  solve ; 
Some  method  to  unloose  a  knot, 

His  anxious  thoughts  revolve. 

He,  pensive,  leans  against  a  tree, 

A  leafy  evergreen — 
The  boughs,  the  moonlight,  intercept, 

And  hide  him  like  a  screen  ; 
He  starts — the  tree  shakes  with  his  tremor, 

Yet  nothing  near  him  pass'd  j 
He  hurries  up  the  garden  alley 

In  strangely  sudden  haste. 

With  shaking  hands  he  lifts  the  latchet, 

Steps  o'er  the  threshold  stone ; 
The  heavy  door  slips  from  his  fingers 

It  shuts,  and  he  is  gone. 


336       POEMS  BY  CUEREK  BELL 

What  touched,  transfixed,  appalled  his  soul?- 

A  nervous  thought,  no  more ; 
'Twill  sink  like  stone  in  placid  pool, 

And  calm  close  smoothly  o'er. 

II. — THE   PARLOUR 

Warm  is  the  parlour  atmosphere, 

Serene  the  lamp's  soft  light ; 
The  vivid  embers,  red  and  clear, 

Proclaim  a  frosty  night. 
Books,  varied,  on  the  table  lie, 

Three  children  o'er  them  bend, 
And  all,  with  curious,  eager  eye, 

The  turning  leaf  attend. 

Picture  and  tale  alternately 

Their  simple  hearts  delight, 
And  interest  deep,  and  tempered  glee, 

Illume  their  aspects  bright. 
The  parents,  from  their  fireside  place, 

Behold  that  pleasant  scene, 
And  joy  is  on  the  mother's  face, 

Pride  in  the  father's  mien. 

As  Gilbert  sees  his  blooming  wife, 

Beholds  his  children  fair, 
No  thought  has  he  of  transient  strife, 

Or  past  though  piercing  fear. 
The  voice  of  happy  infancy 

Lisps  sweetly  in  his  ear, 
His  wife,  with  pleased  and  peaceful  eye. 

Sits,  kindly  smiling,  near. 

The  fire  glows  on  her  silken  dress, 

And  shows  its  ample  grace, 
And  warmly  tints  each  hazel  tress, 

Curled  soft  around  her  face. 


GILBERT  337 

The  beauty  that  in  youth  he  wooed 

Is  beauty  still,  unfaded  ; 
The  brow  of  ever  placid  mood 

No  churlish  grief  has  shaded. 

Prosperity,  in  Gilbert's  home, 

Abides  the  guest  of  years  ; 
There  Want  or  Discord  never  come, 

And  seldom  Toil  or  Tears. 
The  carpets  bear  the  peaceful  print 

Of  comfort's  velvet  tread, 
And  golden  gleams,  from  plenty  sent, 

In  every  nook  are  shed. 

The  very  silken  spaniel  seems 

Of  quiet  ease  to  tell, 
As  near  its  mistress'  feet  it  dreams, 

Sunk  in  a  cushion's  swell ; 
And  smiles  seem  native  to  the  eyes 

Of  those  sweet  children  three  ; 
They  have  but  looked  on  tranquil  skies, 

And  know  not  misery. 

Alas  !  that  Misery  should  come 

In  such  an  hour  as  this  ; 
Why  could  she  not  so  calm  a  home 

A  little  longer  miss  ? 
But  she  is  now  within  the  door, 

Her  steps  advancing  glide  ; 
Her  sullen  shade  has  crossed  the  floor, 

She  stands  at  Gilbert's  side. 

She  lays  her  hand  upon  his  heart, 

It  bounds  with  agony  ; 
His  fireside  chair  shakes  with  the  start 

That  shook  the  garden  tree. 


338      POEMS  BY  CUEKEE  BELL 

His  wife  towards  the  children  looks, 
She  does  not  mark  his  mien  ; 

The  children,  bending  o'er  their  books, 
His  terror  have  not  seen. 

In  his  own  home,  by  his  own  hearth, 

He  sits  in  solitude, 
And  circled  round  with  light  and  mirth, 

Cold  horror  chills  his  blood. 
His  mind  would  hold  with  desperate  clutch 

The  scene  that  round  him  lies  ; 
No — changed,  as  by  some  wizard's  touch, 

The  present  prospect  flies. 

A  tumult  vague — a  viewless  strife 

His  futile  struggles  crush ; 
'Twixt  him  and  his  an  unknown  life 

And  unknown  feelings  rush. 
He  sees — but  scarce  can  language  paint 

The  tissue  fancy  weaves  ; 
For  words  oft  give  but  echo  faint 

Of  thoughts  the  mind  conceives. 

Noise,  tumult  strange,  and  darkness  dim 

Efface  both  light  and  quiet ; 
No  shape  is  in  those  shadows  grim, 

No  voice  in  that  wild  riot. 
Sustain'd  and  strong,  a  wondrous  blast 

Above  and  round  him  blows  ; 
A  greenish  gloom,  dense  overcast, 

Each  moment  denser  grows. 

He  nothing  knows — nor  clearly  sees, 
Eesistance  checks  his  breath, 

The  high,  impetuous,  ceaseless  breeze 
Blows  on  him  cold  as  death. 


GILBEET  339 

And  still  the  undulating  gloom 

Mocks  sight  with  formless  motion  : 

Was  such  sensation  Jonah's  doom, 
Gulphed  in  the  depths  of  ocean  ? 

Streaking  the  air,  the  nameless  vision, 

Fast-driven,  deep-sounding,  flows ; 
Oh  !  whence  its  source,  and  what  its  mission  ? 

How  will  its  terrors  close  ? 
Long- sweeping,  rushing,  vast  and  void, 

The  universe  it  swallows  ; 
And  still  the  dark,  devouring  tide 

A  typhoon  tempest  follows. 

More  slow  it  rolls  ;  its  furious  race 

Sinks  to  its  solemn  gliding  ; 
The  stunning  roar,  the  wind's  wild  chase, 

To  stillness  are  subsiding  ; 
And,  slowly  borne  along,  a  form 

The  shapeless  chaos  varies ; 
Poised  in  the  eddy  to  the  storm, 

Before  the  eye  it  tarries  : 

A  woman  drowned — sunk  in  the  deep, 

On  a  long  wave  reclining  ; 
The  circling  waters'  crystal  sweep, 

Like  glass,  her  shape  enshrining. 
Her  pale  dead  face,  to  Gilbert  turned, 

Seems  as  in  sleep  reposing  ; 
A  feeble  light,  now  first  discerned, 

The  features  well  disclosing. 

No  effort  from  the  haunted  air 

The  ghastly  scene  could  banish ; 
That  hovering  wave,  arrested  there, 

Rolled — throbbed — but  did.  not  vanish, 


340  POEMS   BY   CURRER  BELL 

If  Gilbert  upward  turned  his  gaze, 
He  saw  the  ocean-shadow  ; 

If  he  looked  down,  the  endless  seas 
Lay  green  as  summer  meadow. 

And  straight  before,  the  pale  corpse  lay, 

Upborne  by  air  or  billow, 
So  near,  he  could  have  touched  the  spray 

That  churned  around  its  pillow. 
The  hollow  anguish  of  the  face 

Had  moved  a  fiend  to  sorrow  ; 
Not  death's  fixed  calm  could  rase  the  trace 

Of  suffering's  deep-worn  furrow. 

All  moved ;  a  strong  returning  blast, 

The  mass  of  waters  raising, 
Bore  wave  and  passive  carcase  past, 

While  Gilbert  yet  was  gazing. 
Deep  in  her  isle-conceiving  womb 

It  seemed  the  ocean  thundered, 
And  soon,  by  realms  of  rushing  gloom, 

Were  seer  and  phantom  sundered. 

Then  swept  some  timbers  from  a  wreck, 

On  following  surges  riding ; 
Then  seaweed,  in  the  turbid  rack 

Uptorn,  went  slowly  gliding. 
The  horrid  shade,  by  slow  degrees, 

A  beam  of  light  defeated, 
And  then  the  roar  of  raving  seas, 

Fast,  far,  and  faint,  retreated. 

.ffnd  all  was  gone — gone  like  a  mist, 
Corse,  billows,  tempest,  wreck  ; 

Three  children  close  to  Gilbert  prest, 
And  clung  around  his  neck. 


GILBERT  341 

'  Good-night !  good-night ! '  the  prattlers  said, 

And  kissed  their  father's  cheek  ; 
'Twas  now  the  hour  their  quiet  bed 

And  placid  rest  to  seek. 

The  mother  with  her  offspring  goea 

To  hear  their  evening  prayer ; 
She  nought  of  Gilbert's  vision  knows, 

And  nought  of  his  despair. 
Yet,  pitying  God,  abridge  the  time 

Of  anguish,  now  his  fate  ! 
Though,  haply,  great  has  been  his  crime, 

Thy  mercy,  too,  is  great. 

Gilbert,  at  length,  uplifts  his  head, 

Bent  for  some  moments  low, 
And  there  is  neither  grief  nor  dread 

Upon  his  subtle  brow. 
For  well  can  he  his  feelings  task, 

And  well  his  looks  command ; 
His  features  well  his  heart  can  mask, 

With  smiles  and  smoothness  bland. 

Gilbert  has  reasoned  with  his  mind — 

He  says  'twas  all  a  dream  ; 
He  strives  his  inward  sight  to  blind 

Against  truth's  inward  beam. 
He  pitied  not  that  shadowy  thing, 

When  it  was  flesh  and  blood  ; 
Nor  now  can  pity's  balmy  spring 

Refresh  his  arid  mood. 

'  And  if  that  dream  has  spoken  truth,' 

Thus  musingly  he  says  ; 
1  If  Elinor  be  dead,  in  sooth, 

Such  chance  the  shock  repays  : 


342       POEMS  BY  CUKKER  BELL 

A  net  was  woven  round  my  feet, 

I  scarce  could  further  go ; 
Ere  shame  had  forced  a  fast  retreat, 

Dishonour  brought  me  low. 

1  Conceal  her,  then,  deep,  silent  sea, 

Give  her  a  secret  grave  ! 
She  sleeps  in  peace,  and  I  am  free, 

No  longer  terror's  slave  : 
And  homage  still,  from  all  the  world, 

Shall  greet  my  spotless  name, 
Since  surges  break  and  waves  are  curled 

Above  its  threatened  shame.' 

III. — THE    WELCOME    HOME 

Above  the  city  hangs  the  moon, 

Some  clouds  are  boding  rain  ; 
Gilbert,  erewhile  on  journey  gone, 

To-night  comes  home  again. 
Ten  years  have  passed  above  his  head, 

Each  year  has  brought  him  gain  ; 
His  prosperous  life  has  smoothly  sped, 

Without  or  tear  or  stain. 

'Tis  somewhat  late — the  city  clocks 

Twelve  deep  vibrations  toll, 
As  Gilbert  at  the  portal  knocks, 

Which  is  his  journey's  goal. 
The  street  is  still  and  desolate, 

The  moon  hid  by  a  cloud  ; 
Gilbert,  impatient,  will  not  wait, — 

His  second  knock  peals  loud. 

The  clocks  are  hushed — there's  not  a  light 

In  any  window  nigh, 
And  not  a  single  planet  bright 

Looks  from  the  clouded  sky  ; 


GILBERT  343 

fhe  air  is  raw,  the  rain  descends, 
A  bitter  north- wind  blows  ; 

His  cloak  the  traveller  scarce  defends—- 
Will not  the  door  unclose  ? 

He  knocks  the  third  time,  and  the  last ; 

His  summons  now  they  hear : 
Within,  a  footstep,  hurrying  fast, 

Is  heard  approaching  near. 
The  bolt  is  drawn,  the  clanking  chain 

Falls  to  the  floor  of  stone ; 
And  Gilbert  to  his  heart  will  strain 

His  wife  and  children  soon. 

The  hand  that  lifts  the  latchet,  holds 

A  candle  to  his  sight, 
And  Gilbert,  on  the  step,  beholds 

A  woman  clad  in  white. 
Lo !  water  from  her  dripping  dress 

Runs  on  the  streaming  floor  ; 
From  every  dark  and  clinging  tress 

The  drops  incessant  pour. 

There's  none  but  her  to  welcome  him  ; 

She  holds  the  candle  high, 
And,  motionless  in  form  and  limb, 

Stands  cold  and  silent  nigh  ; 
There's  sand  and  seaweed  on  her  robe, 

Her  hollow  eyes  are  blind  ; 
No  pulse  in  such  a  frame  can  throb, 

No  life  is  there  denned. 

Gilbert  turned  ashy-white,  but  still 

His  lips  vouchsafed  no  cry ; 
He  spurred  his  strength  and  master-will 

To  pass  the  figure  by, — 


344      POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

But,  moving  slow,  it  faced  him  straight, 
It  would  not  flinch  nor  quail : 

Then  first  did  Gilbert's  strength  abate, 
His  stony  firmness  fail. 

He  sank  upon  his  knees  and  prayed ; 

The  shape  stood  rigid  there  ; 
He  called  aloud  for  human  aid, 

No  human  aid  was  near. 
An  accent  strange  did  thus  repeat 

Heaven's  stern  but  just  decree  : 
'  The  measure  thou  to  her  didst  mete, 

To  thee  shall  measured  be  ! ' 

Gilbert  sprang  from  his  bended  knees, 

By  the  pale  spectre  pushed, 
And,  wild  as  one  whom  demons  seize, 

Up  the  hall-staircase  rushed ; 
Entered  his  chamber — near  the  bed 

Sheathed  steel  and  firearms  hung — 
Impelled  by  maniac  purpose  dread 

He  chose  those  stores  among. 

Across  his  throat  a  keen-edged  knife 

With  vigorous  hand  he  drew  ; 
The  wound  was  wide— his  outraged  life 

Bushed  rash  and  redly  through. 
And  thus  died,  by  a  shameful  death, 

A  wise  and  worldly  man, 
Who  never  drew  but  selfish  breath 

Since  first  his  life  began. 


LIFE 

LIFE,  believe,  is  not  a  dream 

So  dark  as  sages  say ; 
Oft  a  little  morning  rain 

Foretells  a  pleasant  day. 
Sometimes  there  are  clouds  of  gloom, 

But  these  are  transient  all ; 
If  the  shower  will  make  the  roses  bloom, 

Oh,  why  lament  its  fall  ? 
Rapidly,  merrily, 

Life's  sunny  hours  flit  by, 
Gratefully,  cheerily, 

Enjoy  them  as  they  fly ! 

What  though  Death  at  times  steps  in, 

And  calls  our  best  away  ? 
What  though  sorrow  seems  to  win, 

O'er  hope,  a  heavy  sway  ? 
Yet  Hope  again  elastic  springs, 

Unconquered,  though  she  fell ; 
Still  buoyant  are  her  golden  wings, 

Still  strong  to  bear  us  well. 
Manfully,  fearlessly, 

The  day  of  trial  bear, 

For  gloriously,  victoriously, 

Can  courage  quell  despair ! 


THE   LETTER 

WHAT  is  she  writing  ?    Watch  her  now, 

How  fast  her  fingers  move  ! 
How  eagerly  her  youthful  brow 

Is  bent  in  thought  above  1 


346      POEMS  BY  CUBBEB  BELL 

Her  long  curls,  drooping,  shade  the  light, 

She  puts  them  quick  aside, 
Nor  knows  that  band  of  crystals  bright 

Her  hasty  touch  untied. 
It  slips  adown  her  silken  dress, 

Falls  glittering  at  her  feet ; 
Unmarked  it  falls,  for  she  no  less 

Pursues  her  labour  sweet. 

The  very  loveliest  hour  that  shines 

Is  in  that  deep  blue  sky ; 
The  golden  sun  of  June  declines, 

It  has  not  caught  her  eye. 
The  cheerful  lawn,  and  unclosed  gate, 

The  white  road,  far  away, 
In  vain  for  her  light  footsteps  wait, 

She  comes  not  forth  to-day. 
There  is  an  open  door  of  glass 

Close  by  that  lady's  chair, 
From  thence,  to  slopes  of  mossy  grass, 

Descends  a  marble  stair. 

Tall  plants  of  bright  and  spicy  bloom 

Around  the  threshold  grow  ; 
Their  leaves  and  blossoms  shade  the  room 

From  that  sun's  deepening  glow. 
Why  does  she  not  a  moment  glance 

Between  the  clustering  flowers, 
And  mark  in  heaven  the  radiant  dance 

Of  evening's  rosy  hours  ? 
Oh,  look  again  !     Still  fixed  her  eye, 

Unsmiling,  earnest,  still, 
And  fast  her  pen  and  fingers  fly, 

Urged  by  her  eager  will. 

Her  soul  is  in  th'  absorbing  task ; 
To  whom,  then,  doth  she  write  ? 


THE  LETTER  347 

Nay,  watch  her  still  more  closely,  ask 

Her  own  eyes'  serious  light ; 
Where  do  they  turn,  as  now  her  pen 

Hangs  o'er  th'  unfinished  line  ? 
Whence  fell  the  tearful  gleam  that  then 

Did  in  their  dark  spheres  shine  ? 
The  summer-parlour  looks  so  dark, 

When  from  that  sky  you  turn, 
And  from  th'  expanse  of  that  green  park 

You  scarce  may  aught  discern. 

Yet  o'er  the  piles  of  porcelain  rare, 

O'er  flower-stand,  couch,  and  vase, 
Sloped,  as  if  leaning  on  the  air, 

One  picture  meets  the  gaze. 
'Tis  there  she  turns  ;  you  may  not  see, 

Distinct,  what  form  defines 
The  clouded  mass  of  mystery 

Yon  broad  gold  frame  confines. 
But  look  again  ;  inured  to  shade 

Your  eyes  now  faintly  trace 
A  stalwart  form,  a  massive  head, 

A  firm,  determined  face. 

Black  Spanish  locks,  a  sunburnt  cheek, 

A  brow  high,  broad,  and  white, 
Where  every  furrow  seems  to  speak 

Of  mind  and  moral  might. 
Is  that  her  god  ?     I  cannot  tell ; 

Her  eye  a  moment  met 
Th'  impending  picture,  then  it  fell 

Darkened  and  dimmed  and  wet. 
A  moment  moi-e,  her  task  is  done, 

And  sealed  the  letter  lies ; 
And  now,  towards  the  setting  sun 

She  turns  her  tearful  eyes. 


348      POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

Those  tears  flow  over,  wonder  not, 

For  by  the  inscription  see 
In  what  a  strange  and  distant  spot 

Her  heart  of  hearts  must  be  ! 
Three  seas  and  many  a  league  of  land 

That  letter  must  pass  o'er, 
Ere  read  by  him  to  whose  loved  hand 

'Tis  sent  from  England's  shore. 
Remote  colonial  wilds  detain 

Her  husband,  loved  though  stern ; 
She,  mid  that  smiling  English  scene. 

Weeps  for  his  wished  return. 


REGRET 

LONG  ago  I  wished  to  leave 

'  The  house  where  I  was  born ; ' 
Long  ago  I  used  to  grieve, 

My  home  seemed  so  forlorn. 
In  other  years,  its  silent  rooms 

Were  filled  with  haunting  feara ; 
Now,  their  very  memozy  comes 

O'ercharged  with  tender  tears. 

Life  and  marriage  I  have  known, 

Things  once  deemed  so  bright ; 
Now,  how  utterly  is  flown 

Every  ray  of  light ! 
Mid  the  unknown  sea  of  life 

I  no  blest  isle  have  found  ; 
At  last,  through  all  its  wild  waves'  strife, 

My  bark  is  homeward  bound. 

Farewell,  dark  and  rolling  deep  I 
Farewell,  foreign  shore  ! 


BEGEET  349 

Open,  in  unclouded  sweep, 

Thou  glorious  realm  before ! 
Yet,  though  I  had  safely  pass'd 

That  weary,  vexed  main, 
One  loved  voice,  through  surge  and  blast, 

Could  call  me  back  again. 

Though  the  soul's  bright  morning  rose 

O'er  Paradise  for  me, 
William  !  even  from  Heaven's  repose 

I'd  turn,  invoked  by  thee  ! 
Storm  nor  surge  should  e'er  arrest 

My  soul,  exulting  then  : 
All  my  heaven  was  once  thy  breast, 

Would  it  were  mine  again  ! 


PEESENTIMENT 

'  SISTER,  you've  sat  there  all  the  day, 

Come  to  the  hearth  awhile  ; 
The  wind  so  wildly  sweeps  away, 

The  clouds  so  darkly  pile. 
That  open  book  has  lain,  unread, 

For  hours  upon  your  knee  ; 
You've  never  smiled  nor  turned  your  head ; 

What  can  you,  sister,  see  ? ' 

'  Come  hither,  Jane,  look  down  the  field  ; 

How  dense  a  mist  creeps  on  ! 
The  path,  the  hedge,  are  both  concealed, 

Ev'n  the  white  gate  is  gone  ; 
No  landscape  through  the  fog  I  trace, 

No  hill  with  pastures  green  ; 
All  featureless  is  Nature's  face, 

All  masked  in  clouds  her  mien. 


350      POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

'  Scarce  is  the  rustle  of  a  leaf 

Heard  in  our  garden  now  ; 
The  year  grows  old,  its  days  wax  brief, 

The  tresses  leave  its  brow. 
The  rain  drives  fast  before  the  wind, 

The  sky  is  blank  and  grey  ; 
O  Jane,  what  sadness  fills  the  mind 

On  such  a  dreary  day ! ' 

'  You  think  too  much,  my  sister  dear  ; 

You  sit  too  long  alone  ; 
What  though  November  days  be  drear  ? 

Full  soon  will  they  be  gone. 
I've  swept  the  hearth,  and  placed  your  chair, 

Come,  Emma,  sit  by  me  ; 
Our  own  fireside  is  never  drear, 
Though  late  and  wintry  wane  the  year, 

Though  rough  the  night  may  be.' 

'  The  peaceful  glow  of  our  fireside 

Imparts  no  peace  to  me  : 
My  thoughts  would  rather  wander  wide 

Than  rest,  dear  Jane,  with  thee. 
I'm  on  a  distant  journey  bound, 

And  if,  about  my  heart, 
Too  closely  kindred  ties  were  bound, 

'Twould  break  when  forced  to  part. 

'  "  Soon  will  November  days  be  o'er  :  " 

Well  have  you  spoken,  Jane : 
My  own  forebodings  tell  me  more — 
For  me,  I  know  by  presage  sure, 

They'll  ne'er  return  again  : 
Ere  long,  nor  sun  nor  storm  to  me 

Will  bring  or  joy  or  gloom  ; 
They  reach  not  that  Eternity 

Which  soon  will  be  my  home.' 


PRESENTIMENT  351 

Eight  months  are  gone,  the  summer  sun 

Sets  in  a  glorious  sky  ; 
A  quiet  field,  all  green  and  lone, 

Receives  its  rosy  dye. 
Jane  sits  upon  a  shaded  stile, 

Alone  she  sits  there  now  ; 
Her  head  rests  on  her  hand  the  while 

And  thought  o'ercasts  her  brow. 

She's  thinking  of  one  winter's  day, 

A  few  short  months  ago, 
When  Emma's  bier  was  borne  away 

O'er  wastes  of  frozen  snow. 
She's  thinking  how  that  drifted  snow 

Dissolved  in  spring's  first  gleam, 
And  how  her  sister's  memory  now 

Fades,  even  as  fades  a  dream. 

The  snow  will  whiten  earth  again, 

But  Emma  comes  no  more  ; 
She  left,  mid  winter's  sleet  and  rain, 

This  world  for  Heaven's  far  shore. 
On  Beulah's  hills  she  wanders  now, 

On  Eden's  tranquil  plain  ; 
To  her  shall  Jane  hereafter  go, 

She  ne'er  shall  come  to  Jane  ! 


THE  TEACHER'S  MONOLOGUE 

THE  room  is  quiet,  thoughts  alone 
People  its  mute  tranquillity ; 

The  yoke  put  off,  the  long  task  done, — 
I  am,  as  it  is  bliss  to  be, 


352  POEMS  BY  CUKKER  BELL 

Still  and  untroubled.     Now,  I  see, 

For  the  first  time,  how  soft  the  day 
O'er  waveless  water,  stirless  tree, 

Silent  and  sunny,  wings  its  way. 
Now,  as  I  watch  that  distant  hill, 

So  faint,  so  blue,  so  far  removed, 
Sweet  dreams  of  home  my  heart  may  fill, 

That  home  where  I  am  known  and  loved : 
It  lies  beyond ;  yon  azure  brow 

Parts  me  from  all  Earth  holds  for  me  ; 
And,  morn  and  eve,  my  yearnings  flow 

Thitherward  tending,  changelessly. 
My  happiest  hours,  ay !  all  the  time, 

I  love  to  keep  in  memory, 
Lapsed  among  moors,  ere  life's  first  prime 

Decayed  to  dark  anxiety. 

Sometimes,  I  think  a  narrow  heart 

Makes  me  thus  mourn  those  far  away, 
And  keeps  my  love  so  far  apart, 

From  friends  and  friendships  of  to-day ; 
Sometimes,  I  think  'tis  but  a  dream 

I  treasure  up  so  jealously, 
All  the  sweet  thoughts  I  live  on  seem 

To  vanish  into  vacancy  : 
And  then,  this  strange,  coarse  world  around 

Seems  all  that's  palpable  and  true  ; 
And  every  sight  and  every  sound 

Combine  my  spirit  to  subdue 
To  aching  grief ;  so  void  and  lone 

Is  Life,  and  Earth — so  worse  than  vain, 
The  hopes  that,  in  my  own  heart  sown, 

And  cherished  by  such  sun  and  rain 
As  Joy  and  transient  Sorrow  shed, 

Have  ripened  to  a  harvest  there  : 
Alas  !  methinks  I  hear  it  said, 

'  Thy  golden  sheaves  are  empty  air.' 


THE  TEACHER'S  MONOLOGUE  353 

All  fades  away ;  my  very  home 

I  think  will  soon  be  desolate  ; 
I  hear,  at  times,  a  warning  come 

Of  bitter  partings  at  its  gate ; 
And,  if  I  should  return  and  see 

The  hearth-fire  quenched,  the  vacant  chair  ; 
And  hear  it  whispered  mournfully, 

That  farewells  have  been  spoken  there, 
What  shall  I  do,  and  whither  turn  ? 
Where  look  for  peace  ?    When  cease  to  mourn  ? 


'Tis  not  the  air  I  wished  to  play, 

The  strain  I  wished  to  sing  ; 
My  wilful  spirit  slipped  away 

And  struck  another  string. 
I  neither  wanted  smile  nor  tear, 

Bright  joy  nor  bitter  woe, 
But  just  a  song  that  sweet  and  clear, 

Though  haply  sad,  might  flow. 

A  quiet  song,  to  solace  me 

When  sleep  refused  to  come ; 
A  strain  to  chase  despondency 

When  sorrowful  for  home. 
In  vain  I  try  ;  I  cannot  sing  ; 

All  feels  so  cold  and  dead  ; 
No  wild  distress,  no  gushing  spring 

Of  tears  in  anguish  shed  ; 

But  all  the  impatient  gloom  of  one 

Who  waits  a  distant  day, 
When,  some  great  task  of  suffering  done, 

Eepose  shall  toil  repay. 
For  youth  departs,  and  pleasure  flies, 

And  life  consumes  away, 
And  youth's  rejoicing  ardour  dies 

Beneath  this  drear  delay  ; 


364       POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

And  Patience,  weary  with  her  yoke, 

Is  yielding  to  despair, 
And  Health's  elastic  spring  is  broke 

Beneath  the  strain  of  care. 
Life  will  be  gone  ere  I  have  lived  ; 

Where  now  is  Life's  first  prime  ? 
I've  worked  and  studied,  longed  and  grieved, 

Through  all  that  rosy  time. 

To  toil,  to  think,  to  long,  to  grieve, — 

Is  such  my  future  fate  ? 
The  morn  was  dreary,  must  the  eve 

Be  also  desolate  ? 
Well,  such  a  life  at  least  makes  Death 

A  welcome,  wished-for  friend ; 
Then,  aid  me,  Reason,  Patience,  Faith, 

To  suffer  to  the  end  ! 


PASSION 

SOME  have  won  a  wild  delight, 

By  daring  wilder  sorrow  ; 
Could  I  gain  thy  love  to-night, 

I'd  hazard  death  to-morrow. 

Could  the  battle-struggle  earn 
One  kind  glance  from  thine  eye, 

How  this  withering  heart  would  burn, 
The  heady  fight  to  try  ! 

Welcome  nights  of  broken  sleep, 

And  days  of  carnage  cold, 
Could  I  deem  that  thou  wouldst  weep 

To  hear  my  perils  told. 


PASSION  365 

Tell  me,  if  with  wandering  bands 

I  roam  full  far  away, 
Wilt  thou  to  those  distant  lands 

In  spirit  ever  stray  ? 

Wild,  long,  a  trumpet  sounds  afar  ; 

Bid  me  —  bid  me  go 
Where  Seik  and  Briton  meet  in  war, 

On  Indian  Sutlej's  flow. 

Blood  has  died  the  Sutlej's  waves 

With  scarlet  stain,  I  know  ; 
Indus'  borders  yawn  with  graves, 

Yet,  command  me  go  1 

Though  rank  and  high  the  holocaust 

Of  nations  steams  to  heaven, 
Glad  I'd  join  the  death-doomed  host, 

Were  but  the  mandate  given. 

Passion's  strength  should  nerve  my  arm, 

Its  ardour  stir  my  life, 
Till  human  force  to  that  dread  charm 
Should  yield  and  sink  in  wild  alarm, 

Like  trees  to  tempest-strife. 

If,  hot  from  war,  I  seek  thy  love, 

Barest  thou  turn  aside  ? 
Darest  thou  then  my  fire  reprove, 

By  scorn,  and  maddening  pride  ? 


No  —  my  will  shall  yet  control 
Thy  will  so  high  and  free, 

And  love  shall  tame  that  haughty 
Yes  —  tendercst  love  for  me. 


356      POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

I'll  read  my  triumph  in  thine  eyes, 
Behold,  and  prove  the  change  ; 

Then  leave,  perchance,  my  noble  prize, 
Once  more  in  arms  to  range. 

I'd  die  when  all  the  foam  is  up, 
The  bright  wine  sparkling  high ; 

Nor  wait  till  in  the  exhausted  cup 
Life's  dull  dregs  only  lie. 

Then  Love  thus  crowned  with  sweet  reward, 
Hope  blest  with  fulness  large, 

I'd  mount  the  saddle,  draw  the  sword, 
And  perish  in  the  charge ! 


PREFERENCE 

NOT  in  scorn  do  I  reprove  thee, 

Not  in  pride  thy  vows  I  waive, 
But,  believe,  I  could  not  love  thee, 

Wert  thou  prince,  and  I  a  slave. 
These,  then,  are  thine  oaths  of  passion  ? 

This,  thy  tenderness  for  me  ? 
Judged,  even,  by  thine  own  confession, 

Thou  art  steeped  in  perfidy. 
Having  vanquished,  thou  wouldst  leave  me  ! 

Thus  I  read  thee  long  ago ; 
Therefore,  dared  I  not  deceive  thee, 

Even  with  friendship's  gentle  show. 
Therefore,  with  impassive  coldness 

Have  I  ever  met  thy  gaze  ; 
Though,  full  oft,  with  daring  boldness, 

Thou  thine  eyes  to  mine  didst  raise. 
Why  that  smile  ?     Thou  now  art  deeming 

This  my  coldness  all  untrue, — 


PREFERENCE  357 

But  a  mask  of  frozen  seeming, 

Hiding  secret  fires  from  view. 
Touch  my  hand,  thou  self-deceiver ; 

Nay — be  calm,  for  I  am  so  : 
Does  it  burn  ?    Does  my  lip  quiver  ? 

Has  mine  eye  a  troubled  glow  ? 
Canst  thou  call  a  moment's  colour 

To  my  forehead — to  my  cheek  ? 
Canst  thou  tinge  their  tranquil  pallor 

With  one  flattering,  feverish  streak? 
Am  I  marble  ?     What !  no  woman 

Could  so  calm  before  thee  stand? 
Nothing  living,  sentient,  human, 

Could  so  coldly  take  thy  hand  ? 
Yes — a  sister  might,  a  mother : 

My  good-will  is  sisterly : 
Dream  not,  then,  I  strive  to  smother 

Fires  that  inly  burn  for  thee. 
Rave  not,  rage  not,  wrath  is  fruitless, 

Fury  cannot  change  my  mind ; 
I  but  deem  the  feeling  rootless 

Which  so  whirls  in  passion's  wind. 
Can  I  love?     Oh,  deeply — truly — 

Warmly — fondly — but  not  thee  ; 
And  my  love  is  answered  duly, 

With  an  equal  energy. 
Wouldst  thou  see  thy  rival  ?     Hasten, 

Draw  that  curtain  soft  aside, 
Look  where  yon  thick  branches  chasten 

Noon,  with  shades  of  eventide. 
In  that  glade,  where  foliage  blending 

Forms  a  green  arch  overhead, 
Sits  thy  rival,  thoughtful  bending 

O'er  a  stand  with  papers  spread — 
Motionless,  his  fingers  plying 

That  untired,  unresting  pen  ; 
Time  and  tide  unnoticed  flying, 

There  he  sits — the  first  of  men  ! 


368      POEMS  BY  CUEBEK  BELL 

Man  of  conscience — man  of  reason ; 

Stern,  perchance,  but  ever  just ; 
Foe  to  falsehood,  wrong,  and  treason, 

Honour's  shield,  and  virtue's  trust ! 
Worker,  thinker,  firm  defender 

Of  Heaven's  truth — man's  liberty ; 
Soul  of  iron — proof  to  slander, 

Kock  where  founders  tyranny. 
Fame  he  seeks  not — but  full  surely 

She  will  seek  him,  in  his  home  ; 
This  I  know,  and  wait  securely 

For  the  atoning  hour  to  come. 
To  that  man  my  faith  is  given, 

Therefore,  soldier,  cease  to  sue  ; 
While  God  reigns  in  earth  and  heaven, 

I  to  him  will  still  be  true  1 


EVENING   SOLACE 

THE  human  heart  has  hidden  treasures, 

In  secret  kept,  in  silence  sealed  ; — 
The  thoughts,  the  hopes,  the  dreams,  the  pleasures, 

Whose  charms  were  broken  if  revealed. 
And  days  may  pass  in  gay  confusion, 

And  nights  in  rosy  riot  fly, 
While,  lost  in  Fame's  or  Wealth's  illusion, 

The  memory  of  the  Past  may  die. 

But  there  are  hours  of  lonely  musing, 

Such  as  in  evening  silence  come, 
When,  soft  as  birds  their  pinions  closing, 

The  heart's  best  feelings  gather  home. 


EVENING   SOLACE  359 

Then  in  our  souls  there  seems  to  languish 

A  tender  grief  that  is  not  woe ; 
And  thoughts  that  once  wrung  groans  of  anguish, 

Now  cause  but  some  mild  tears  to  flow. 

And  feelings,  once  as  strong  as  passions, 

Float  softly  back — a  faded  dream  ; 
Our  own  sharp  griefs  and  wild  sensations, 

The  tale  of  others'  sufferings  seem. 
Oh  I  when  the  heart  is  freshly  bleeding, 

How  longs  it  for  that  time  to  be, 
When,  through  the  mist  of  years  receding, 

Its  woes  but  live  in  reverie  ! 

And  it  can  dwell  on  moonlight  glimmer, 

On  evening  shade  and  loneliness ; 
And,  while  the  sky  grows  dim  and  dimmer, 

Feel  no  untold  and  strange  distress — 
Only  a  deeper  impulse  given 

By  lonely  hour  and  darkened  room, 
To  solemn  thoughts  that  soar  to  heaven 

Seeking  a  life  and  world  to  come. 


STANZAS 

IF  thou  be  in  a  lonely  place, 

If  one  hour's  calm  be  thine, 
As  Evening  bends  her  placid  face 

O'er  this  sweet  day's  decline  ; 
If  all  the  earth  and  all  the  heaven 

Now  look  serene  to  thee, 
As  o'er  them  shuts  the  summer  even, 

One  moment — think  of  me  ! 


360       POEMS  BY  CUEEER  BELL 

Pause,  in  the  lane,  returning  home ; 

Tis  dusk,  it  will  be  still : 
Pause  near  the  elm,  a  sacred  gloom 

Its  breezeless  boughs  will  fill. 
Look  at  that  soft  and  golden  light, 

High  in  the  unclouded  sky  ; 
Watch  the  last  bird's  belated  flight, 

As  it  flits  silent  by. 


Hark !  for  a  sound  upon  the  wind, 

A  step,  a  voice,  a  sigh  ; 
If  all  be  still,  then  yield  thy  mind, 

Unchecked,  to  memory. 
If  thy  love  were  like  mine,  how  bleat 

That  twilight  hour  would  seem, 
When,  back  from  the  regretted  Past, 

Returned  our  early  dream  ! 

If  thy  love  were  like  mine,  how  wild 

Thy  longings,  even  to  pain, 
For  sunset  soft,  and  moonlight  mild, 

To  bring  that  hour  again  ? 
But  oft,  when  in  thine  arms  I  lay, 

I've  seen  thy  dark  eyes  shine, 
And  deeply  felt  their  changeful  ray 

Spoke  other  love  than  mine. 

My  love  is  almost  anguish  now, 

It  beats  so  strong  and  true  ; 
'Twere  rapture,  could  I  deem  that  thou 

Such  anguish  ever  knew. 
I  have  been  but  thy  transient  flower, 

Thou  wert  my  god  divine ; 
Till  checked  by  death's  congealing  power, 

This  heart  must  throb  for  thine, 


STANZAS  861 

And  well  my  dying  hour  were  blest, 

If  life's  expiring  breath 
Should  pass,  as  thy  lips  gently  prest 

My  forehead  cold  in  death  ; 
And  sound  my  sleep  would  be,  and  sweet, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree, 
If  sometimes  in  thy  heart  should  beat 

One  pulse,  still  true  to  me. 


WATCHING  AND  WISHING1 

OH,  would  I  were  the  golden  light 

That  shines  around  thee  now, 
As  slumber  shades  the  spotless  white 

Of  that  unclouded  brow  ! 
It  watches  through  each  changeful  dream 

Thy  features'  varied  play ; 
It  meets  thy  waking  eyes'  soft  gleam 

By  dawn — by  op'ning  day. 

Oh,  would  I  were  the  crimson  veil 

Above  thy  couch  of  snow, 
To  dye  that  cheek  so  soft,  so  pale, 

With  my  reflected  glow  ! 
Oh,  would  I  were  the  cord  of  gold 

Whose  tassel  set  with  pearls 
Just  meets  the  silken  cov'ring's  fold 

And  rests  upon  thy  curls, 

Dishevell'd  in  thy  rosy  sleep, 
And  shading  soft  thy  dreams ; 

Across  their  bright  and  raven  sweep 
The  golden  tassel  gleams ! 

First  published  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  December,  1860. 


362      POEMS  BY  CURBEB  BELL 

I  would  be  anything  for  thee, 
My  love — my  radiant  love — 

A  flower,  a  bird,  for  sympathy, 
A  watchful  star  above. 


WHEN  THOU   SLEEPEST 

WHEN  thou  sleepest,  lulled  in  night, 

Art  thou  lost  in  vacancy  ? 
Does  no  silent  inward  light, 

Softly  breaking,  fall  on  thee  ? 
Does  no  dream  on  quiet  wing 

Float  a  moment  mid  that  ray, 
Touch  some  answering  mental  string, 

Wake  a  note  and  pass  away  ? 

When  thou  watchest,  as  the  hours 

Mute  and  blind  are  speeding  on, 
O'er  that  rayless  path,  where  lowers 

Muffled  midnight,  black  and  lone  ; 
Comes  there  nothing  hovering  near, 

Thought  or  half  reality, 
Whispering  marvels  in  thine  ear, 

Every  word  a  mystery, 

Chanting  low  an  ancient  lay, 

Every  plaintive  note  a  spell, 
Clearing  memory's  clouds  away, 

Showing  scenes  thy  heart  loves  well  ? 
Songs  forgot,  in  childhood  sung, 

Airs  in  youth  beloved  and  known, 
Whispered  by  that  airy  tongue, 

Once  again  are  made  thine  own. 


WHEN   THOU   SLEEPEST  363 

Be  it  dream  in  haunted  sleep, 

Be  it  thought  in  vigil  lone, 
Drink'st  thou  not  a  rapture  deep 

From  the  feeling,  'tis  thine  own  ? 
All  thine  own  ;  thou  need'st  not  tell 

What  bright  form  thy  slumber  blest ; — 
All  thine  own  ;  remember  well 

Night  and  shade  were  round  thy  rest. 

Nothing  looked  upon  thy  bed, 

Save  the  lonely  watch-light's  gleam ; 
Not  a  whisper,  not  a  tread 

Scared  thy  spirit's  glorious  dream. 
Sometimes,  when  the  midnight  gale 

Breathed  a  moan  and  then  was  still, 
Seemed  the  spell  of  thought  to  fail, 

Checked  by  one  ecstatic  thrill ; 


Felt  as  all  external  things, 

Eobed  in  moonlight,  smote  thine  eye ; 
Then  thy  spirit's  waiting  wings 

Quivered,  trembled,  spread  to  fly ; 
Then  th*  aspirer  wildly  swelling 

Looked,  where  mid  transcendency 
Star  to  star  was  mutely  telling 

Heaven's  resolve  and  fate's  decree. 


Oh  !  it  longed  for  holier  fire 

Than  this  spark  in  earthly  shrine ; 
Oh !  it  soared,  and  higher,  higher, 

Sought  to  reach  a  home  divine. 
Hopeless  quest !  soon  weak  and  weary 

Flagged  the  pinion,  drooped  the  plume, 
And  again  in  sadness  dreary 

Came  the  baffled  wanderer  home. 


364  POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

And  again  it  turned  for  soothing 

To  th'  unfinished,  broken  dream  ; 
While,  the  ruffled  current  smoothing, 

Thought  rolled  on  her  startled  stream. 
I  have  felt  this  cherished  feeling, 

Sweet  and  known  to  none  but  me  ; 
Still  I  felt  it  nightly  healing 

Each  dark  day's  despondency. 


PARTING 

THEBE'S  no  use  in  weeping, 
Though  we  are  condemned  to  part : 

There's  such  a  thing  as  keeping 
A  remembrance  in  one's  heart : 

There's  such  a  thing  as  dwelling 

On  the  thought  ourselves  have  nursed, 

And  with  scorn  and  courage  telling 
The  world  to  do  its  worst. 

We'll  not  let  its  follies  grieve  us, 
We'll  just  take  them  as  they  come ; 

And  then  every  day  will  leave  us 
A  merry  laugh  for  home. 

When  we've  left  each  friend  and  brother, 
When  we're  parted  wide  and  far, 

We  will  think  of  one  another, 
As  even  better  than  we  are. 

Every  glorious  sight  above  us, 
Every  pleasant  sight  beneath, 

We'll  connect  with  those  that  love  us, 
Whom  we  truly  love  till  death  ! 


PARTING  365 

In  the  evening,  when  we're  sitting 

By  the  fire,  perchance  alone, 
Then  shall  heart  with  warm  heart  meeting, 

Give  responsive  tone  for  tone. 

We  can  burst  the  bonds  which  chain  us, 
Which  cold  human  hands  have  wrought, 

And  where  none  shall  dare  restrain  us 
We  can  meet  again,  in  thought. 

So  there's  no  use  in  weeping, 

Bear  a  cheerful  spirit  still ; 
Never  doubt  that  Fate  is  keeping 

Future  good  for  present  ill ! 


APOSTASY 

THIS  last  denial  of  my  faith, 

Thou,  solemn  Priest,  hast  heard ; 
And,  though  upon  my  bed  of  death, 

I  call  not  back  a  word. 
Point  not  to  thy  Madonna,  Priest, — 

Thy  sightless  saint  of  stone  ; 
She  cannot,  from  this  burning  breast, 

Wring  one  repentant  moan. 

Thou  say'st  that,  when  a  sinless  child, 

I  duly  bent  the  knee, 
And  prayed  to  what  in  marble  smiled 

Cold,  lifeless,  mute,  on  me. 
I  did.     But  listen  !     Children  spring 

Full  soon  to  riper  youth  ; 
And,  for  Love's  vow  and  Wedlock's  ring, 

I  sold  my  early  truth. 


366      POEMS  Bt  CUEBEE  BELL 

'Twas  not  a  grey,  bare  head,  like  thine, 

Bent  o'er  me,  when  I  said, 
'  That  land  and  God  and  Faith  are  mine, 

For  which  thy  fathers  bled.' 
I  see  thee  not,  my  eyes  are  dim  ; 

But  well  I  hear  thee  say, 
1  0  daughter,  cease  to  think  of  him 

Who  led  thy  soul  astray. 


'  Between  you  lies  both  space  and  time  ; 

Let  leagues  and  years  prevail 
To  turn  thee  from  the  path  of  crime, 

Back  to  the  Church's  pale.' 
And,  did  I  need  that  thou  shouldst  tell 

What  mighty  barriers  rise 
To  part  me  from  that  dungeon-cell, 

Where  my  loved  Walter  lies  ? 

And,  did  I  need  that  thou  shouldst  taunt 

My  dying  hour  at  last, 
By  bidding  this  worn  spirit  pant 

No  more  for  what  is  past  ? 
Priest — must  I  cease  to  think  of  him  ? 

How  hollow  rings  that  word  ! 
Can  time,  can  tears,  can  distance  dim 

The  memory  of  my  lord  ? 

I  said  before,  I  saw  not  thee, 

Because,  an  hour  agone, 
Over  my  eyeballs,  heavily, 

The  lids  fell  down  like  stone. 
But  still  my  spirit's  inward  sight 

Beholds  his  image  beam 
As  fixed,  as  clear,  as  burning  bright, 

As  some  red  planet's  gleam. 


APOSTASY  367 

Talk  not  of  thy  Last  Sacrament, 

Tell  not  thy  beads  for  me  ; 
Both  rite  and  prayer  are  vainly  spent, 

As  dews  upon  the  sea. 
Speak  not  one  word  of  Heaven  above, 

Rave  not  of  Hell's  alarms  ; 
Give  me  but  back  my  Walter's  love, 

Eestore  me  to  his  arms  ! 

Then  will  the  bliss  of  Heaven  be  won ; 

Then  will  Hell  shrink  away, 
As  I  have  seen  night's  terrors  shun 

The  conquering  steps  of  day. 
Tis  my  religion  thus  to  love, 

My  creed  thus  fixed  to  be  ; 
Not  death  shall  shake,  nor  Priestcraft  break 

My  rock-like  constancy ! 

Now  go  ;  for  at  the  door  there  waits 

Another  stranger  guest ; 
He  calls — I  come — my  pulse  scarce  beats, 

My  heart  fails  in  my  breast. 
Again  that  voice — how  far  away, 

How  dreary  sounds  that  tone ! 
And  I,  methinks,  am  gone  astray, 

In  trackless  wastes  and  lone. 

I  fain  would  rest  a  little  while : 

Where  can  I  find  a  stay, 
Till  dawn  upon  the  hills  shall  smile, 

And  show  some  trodden  way  ? 
'I  come  !  I  come ! '  in  haste  she  said ; 

1  'Twas  Walter's  voice  I  heard  ! ' 
Then  up  she  sprang — but  fell  back,  dead, 

His  name  her  latest  word. 


368  POEMS  BY  CUEKER  BELL 


WINTER   STORES 

WE  take  from  life  one  little  share, 

And  say  that  this  shall  be 
A  space,  redeemed  from  toil  and  care, 

From  tears  and  sadness  free. 

And,  haply,  Death  unstrings  his  bow, 

And  Sorrow  stands  apart, 
And,  for  a  little  while,  we  know 

The  sunshine  of  the  heart. 

Existence  seems  a  summer  eve, 
Warm,  soft,  and  full  of  peace ; 

Our  free,  unfettered  feelings  give 
The  soul  its  full  release. 

A  moment,  then,  it  takes  the  power 
To  call  up  thoughts  that  throw, 

Around  that  charmed  and  hallowed  hour, 
This  life's  divinest  glow. 

But  Time,  though  viewlessly  it  flies, 

And  slowly,  will  not  stay ; 
Alike,  through  clear  and  clouded  skies, 

It  cleaves  its  silent  way. 

Alike  the  bitter  cup  of  grief, 

Alike  the  draught  of  bliss, 
Its  progress  leaves  but  moment  brief 

i'or  baffled  lips  to  kiss. 

The  sparkling  draught  is  dried  away, 

The  hour  of  rest  is  gone, 
And  urgent  voices,  round  us,  say, 

'  Ho,  lingerer,  hasten  on  1 ' 


WINTER   STORES  369 

And  has  the  soul,  then,  only  gained, 

From  this  brief  time  of  ease, 
A  moment's  rest,  when  overstrained, 

One  hurried  glimpse  of  peace  ? 

No  ;  while  the  sun  shone  kindly  o'er  us, 
And  flowers  bloomed  round  our  feet, — 

While  many  a  bud  of  joy  before  us 
Unclosed  its  petals  sweet, — 

An  unseen  work  within  was  plying  ; 

Like  honey-seeking  bee, 
From  flower  to  flower,  unwearied,  flying, 

Laboured  one  faculty, — 

Thoughtful  for  Winter's  future  sorrow, 

Its  gloom  and  scarcity ; 
Prescient  to-day  of  want  to-morrow, 

Toiled  quiet  Memory. 

'Tis  she  that  from  each  transient  pleasure 

Extracts  a  lasting  good  ; 
'Tis  she  that  finds,  in  summer,  treasure 

To  serve  for  winter's  food. 

And  when  Youth's  summer  day  is  vanished, 

And  Age  brings  Winter's  stress, 
Her  stores,  with  hoarded  sweets  replenished, 

Life's  evening  hours  will  bless. 


THE  MISSIONARY 

PLOUGH,  vessel,  plough  the  British  main, 
Seek  the  free  ocean's  wider  plain  ; 
Leave  English  scenes  and  English  skies, 
Unbind,  dissever  English  ties  ; 


370      POEMS  BY  CUREEE  BELL 

Bear  me  to  climes  remote  and  strange, 
Where  altered  life,  fast-following  change, 
Hot  action,  never-ceasing  toil, 
Shall  stir,  turn,  dig,  the  spirit's  soil ; 
Fresh  roots  shall  plant,  fresh  seed  shall  sow, 
Till  a  new  garden  there  shall  grow, 
Cleared  of  the  weeds  that  fill  it  now, — 
Mere  human  love,  mere  selfish  yearning, 

Which,  cherished,  would  arrest  me  yet. 
I  grasp  the  plough,  there's  no  returning, 

Let  me,  then,  struggle  to  forget. 

But  England's  shores  are  yet  in  view, 
And  England's  skies  of  tender  blue 
Are  arched  above  her  guardian  sea. 
I  cannot  yet  Eemembrance  flee  ; 
I  must  again,  then,  firmly  face 
That  task  of  anguish  to  retrace. 
Wedded  to  home — I  home  forsake  ; 
Fearful  of  change — I  changes  make ; 
Too  fond  of  ease — I  plunge  in  toil ; 
Lover  of  calm — I  seek  turmoil : 
Nature  and  hostile  Destiny 

Stir  in  my  heart  a  conflict  wild ; 
And  long  and  fierce  the  war  will  be 

Ere  duty  both  has  reconciled. 

What  other  tie  yet  holds  me  fast 
To  the  divorced,  abandoned  past  ? 
Smouldering,  on  my  heart's  altar  lies 
The  fire  of  some  great  sacrifice, 
Not  yet  half  quenched.     The  sacred  steel 
But  lately  struck  my  carnal  will, 
My  life-long  hope,  first  joy  and  last, 
What  I  loved  well,  and  clung  to  fast ; 
What  I  wished  wildly  to  retain, 
What  I  renounced  with  soul-felt  pain  ; 


THE   MISSIONARY  371 

What — when  I  saw  it,  axe-struck,  perish — 

Left  me  no  joy  on  earth  to  cherish  ; 

A  man  bereft — yet  sternly  now 

I  do  confirm  that  Jephtha  vow  : 

Shall  I  retract,  or  fear,  or  flee  ? 

Did  Christ,  when  rose  the  fatal  tree 

Before  him,  on  Mount  Calvary  ? 

'Twas  a  long  fight,  hard  fought,  but  won, 

And  what  I  did  was  justly  done. 

Yet,  Helen  !  from  thy  love  I  turned, 
When  my  heart  most  for  thy  heart  burned  ; 
I  dared  thy  tears,  I  dared  thy  scorn — 
Easier  the  death-pang  had  been  borne. 
Helen,  thou  might'st  not  go  with  me, 
I  could  not — dared  not  stay  for  thee  ! 
I  heard,  afar,  in  bonds  complain 
The  savage  from  beyond  the  main  ; 
And  that  wild  sound  rose  o'er  the  cry 
Wrung  out  by  passion's  agony  ; 
And  even  when,  with  the  bitterest  tear 

I  ever  shed,  mine  eyes  were  dim, 
Still,  with  the  spirit's  vision  clear, 

I  saw  Hell's  empire,  vast  and  grim, 
Spread  on  each  Indian  river's  shore, 
Each  realm  of  Asia  covering  o'er. 
There,  the  weak,  trampled  by  the  strong, 

Live  but  to  suffer — hopeless  die  ; 
There  pagan-priests,  whose  creed  is  Wrong, 

Extortion,  Lust,  and  Cruelty, 
Crush  our  lost  race— and  brimming  fill 
The  bitter  cup  of  human  ill ; 
And  I — who  have  the  healing  creed, 

The  faith  benign  of  Mary's  Son, 
Shall  I  behold  my  brother's  need, 

And,  selfishly,  to  aid  him  shun  ? 
I — who  upon  my  mother's  knees, 


372      POEMS  BY  CURREB  BELL 

In  childhood,  read  Christ's  written  word, 
Received  his  legacy  of  peace, 

His  holy  rule  of  action  heard  ; 
I — in  whose  heart  the  sacred  sense 

Of  Jesus'  love  was  early  felt ; 
Of  his  pure,  full  benevolence, 

His  pitying  tenderness  for  guilt ; 
His  shepherd-care  for  wandering  sheep, 

For  all  weak,  sorrowing,  trembling  things, 
His  mercy  vast,  his  passion  deep 

Of  anguish  for  man's  sufferings  ; 
I — schooled  from  childhood  in  such  lore — 

Dared  I  draw  back  or  hesitate, 
When  called  to  heal  the  sickness  sore 

Of  those  far  off  and  desolate  ? 
Dark,  in  the  realm  and  shades  of  Death, 

Nations,  and  tribes,  and  empires  lie, 
But  even  to  them  the  light  of  Faith 

Is  breaking  on  their  sombre  sky  : 
And  be  it  mine  to  bid  them  raise 

Their  drooped  heads  to  the  kindling  scene, 
And  know  and  hail  the  sunrise  blaze 

Which  heralds  Christ  the  Nazarene. 
I  know  how  Hell  the  veil  will  spread 

Over  their  brows  and  filmy  eyes, 
And  earthward  crush  the  lifted  head 

That  would  look  up  and  seek  the  skies ; 
I  know  what  war  the  fiend  will  wage 

Against  that  soldier  of  the  Cross, 
Who  comes  to  dare  his  demon  rage, 

And  work  his  kingdom  shame  and  loss. 
Yes,  hard  and  terrible  the  toil 
Of  him  who  steps  on  foreign  soil, 
Resolved  to  plant  the  gospel  vine, 
Where  tyrants  rule  and  slaves  repine  ; 
Eager  to  lift  Religion's  light 
Where  thickest  shades  of  mental  night 


THE  MISSIONARY  373 

Screen  the  false  god  and  fiendish  rite  ; 

Reckless  that  missionary  blood, 

Shed  in  wild  wilderness  and  wood, 

Has  left,  upon  the  unblest  air, 

The  man's  deep  moan — the  martyr's  prayer. 

I  know  my  lot — I  only  ask 

Power  to  fulfil  the  glorious  task  ; 

Willing  the  spirit,  may  the  flesh 

Strength  for  the  day  receive  afresh. 

May  burning  sun  or  deadly  wind 

Prevail  not  o'er  an  earnest  mind  ; 

May  torments  strange  or  direst  death 

Nor  trample  truth,  nor  baffle  faith. 

Though  such  blood-drops  should  fall  from  me 

As  fell  in  old  Gethsemane, 

Welcome  the  anguish,  so  it  gave 

More  strength  to  work — more  skill  to  save. 

And,  oh  !  if  brief  must  be  my  time, 

If  hostile  hand  or  fatal  clime 

Cut  short  my  course — still  o'er  my  grave, 

Lord,  may  thy  harvest  whitening  wave. 

So  I  the  culture  may  begin, 

Let  others  thrust  the  sickle  in  ; 

If  but  the  seed  will  faster  grow, 

May  my  blood  water  what  I  sow  ! 


What !  have  I  ever  trembling  stood, 
And  feared  to  give  to  God  that  blood  ? 
What !  has  the  coward  love  of  life 
Made  me  shrink  from  the  righteous  strife  ? 
Have  human  passions,  human  fears 
Severed  me  from  those  Pioneers 
Whose  task  is  to  march  first,  and  trace 
Paths  for  the  progress  of  our  race  ? 
It  has  been  so ;  but  grant  me,  Lord, 
Now  to  stand  steadfast  by  Thy  word  1 


374  POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

Protected  by  salvation's  helm, 

Shielded  by  faith,  with  truth  begirt, 
To  smile  when  trials  seek  to  whelm 

And  stand  mid  testing  fires  unhurt 
Hurling  Hell's  strongest  bulwarks  down, 

Even  when  the  last  pang  thrills  my  breast, 
When  death  bestows  the  martyr's  crown, 

And  calls  me  into  Jesus'  rest. 
Then  for  my  ultimate  reward — 
Then  for  the  world-rejoicing  word — 
The  voice  from  Father — Spirit — Son  : 
1  Servant  of  God,  well  hast  thou  done  I ' 


MEMORY » 

WHEN  the  dead  in  their  cold  graves  are  lying 

Asleep,  to  wake  never  again, 
When  past  are  their  smiles  and  their  sighing, 

Oh  1  why  should  their  memories  remain  ? 

Though  sunshine  and  spring  may  have  lightened 
The  wild  flowers  that  blow  on  their  graves ; 

Though  summer  their  tombstones  have  brightened, 
And  autumn  have  pall'd  them  with  leaves  ; 

Though  winter  have  wildly  bewailed  them 

With  her  dirge  wind,  as  sad  as  a  knell ; 
Though  the  shroud  of  her  snow-wreath  have  veiled  them, 

Still,  how  deep  in  our  bosoms  they  dwell  1 

The  shadow  and  sun-sparkle  vanish, 

The  cloud  and  the  light  fleet  away  ; 
But  man  from  his  heart  may  not  banish 

Ev'n  thoughts  that  are  torment  to  stay. 

1  First  published  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  February  1898, 


MEMORY  375 

The  reflection  departs  from  the  river, 

When  the  tree  that  hung  o'er  is  cut  down ; 

But  on  Memory's  calm  current  for  ever 
The  shade,  without  substance,  is  thrown. 

When  quenched  in  the  glow  of  the  ember, 

When  the  life-fire  ceases  to  burn, 
Oh  !  why  should  the  spirit  remember  ? 

Oh  !  why  should  the  parted  return  ? 

Because  that  the  fire  is  still  shining, 
Because  that  the  lamp  is  still  bright ; 

While  the  body  in  dust  is  reclining, 
The  soul  lives  in  glory  and  light. 


THE  ORPHANS1 
(Translated  from  the  French) 

'TwAS  New- Year's  night ;  the  joyous  throng 

Of  guests  from  banquet  rose, 
And  lightly  took  their  homeward  path 

Across  the  drifted  snows. 
That  night,  e'en  to  the  peasants'  shed, 
Some  little  gleam  of  gladness  spread. 

That  night,  beside  a  chapel  door, 

Two  lonely  children  stood  ; 
In  timid  tone,  with  utterance  faint, 

They  asked  a  little  food  : 
Careless,  the  laughing  guests  passed  by, 
Too  gay  to  mark  the  Orphans'  cry. 

First  published  in  the  Manchester  Athcnccum  Album,  1850. 


376  POEMS  BY  CURRER  BELL 

A  lamp  that  lit  the  sacred  shrine 
The  children's  pale  cheeks  showed  ; 

The  elder  stretched  his  trembling  hand 
For  what  was  not  bestowed  ; 

The  younger  sang  a  plaintive  strain, 

Oft  dropped,  then  feebly  raised  again  : 

'  Two  friendless,  helpless  children,  we, 

Our  mother's  death  we  weep ; 
Together  in  one  narrow  grave, 

She  and  our  father  sleep  ! 
We  too  of  cold  and  want  must  die, 
If  none  will  help  or  hear  our  cry ! ' 

This  voice  was  lost ;  the  winter-wind 

Bore  off  its  tones  subdued, 
And  soon  the  merry  feasters  gone, 

Left  all  in  solitude  ; 

And  none  had  looked  towards  the  church 
Or  marked  the  Orphans  in  its  porch. 

Then  turned  they  to  the  chapel  door ; 

Their  mother  oft  had  said 
That  God  will  shield  the  friendless  poor, 

When  other  aid  is  fled. 
They  knocked — an  echo  mocked  the  ear  ; 
They  waited — Death  alone  drew  near  ! 

Time  speeds  ;  the  lamp  shines  feebly  still, 

The  chimes  of  midnight  sound  ; 
Heard  now  from  far,  a  chariot's  wheels 

Eing  o'er  the  frozen  ground. 
Eise,  Orphans  !     Call !     No ! — hushed  their  cry. 
Unchecked,  the  chariot  thunders  by. 

A  priest  his  matins  came  to  say, 
When  dawn  first  lit  the  skies  ; 


THE  ORPHANS  377 

He  found  them  on  the  threshold  laid ; 

He  called — they  would  not  rise  ! 
The  icy  steps  of  stone  their  bed, 
The  white  snow  for  their  covering  spread 

Clasped  closely  in  each  other's  arms 

As  if  for  warmth,  they  lay  ; 
But  perished  is  the  fire  of  Life, 

And  stilled  the  pulses'  play  ; 
Mute,  motionless,  and  ashen  pale, 
They  slept,  no  more  to  wake  or  wail ! 

The  elder  pressed  the  younger's  lips, 

As  if  to  check  a  prayer  ; 
As  if  to  say,  '  'Tis  vain  to  ask  ! 

Compassion  dwells  not  here ! ' 
And  half  he  screened  his  brother's  form 
To  hide  him  from  the  frozen  storm. 

Lulled  thus  in  everlasting  sleep, 

The  Orphan  Babes  are  laid  ; 
Now  those  their  piteous  fate  may  weep 

Who  would  not  give  them  aid  ; 
Crowds  thronged  the  church  by  morning  light, 
But  none  came  near  that  winter-night ! 


POEMS   BY  ELLIS   BELL 


FAITH  AND  DESPONDENCY 

'  THE  winter  wind  is  loud  and  wild, 
Come  close  to  me,  my  darling  child  ; 
Forsake  thy  books,  and  mateless  play ; 
And,  while  the  night  is  gathering  gray, 
We'll  talk  its  pensive  hours  away 

'  lerne,  round  our  sheltered  hall 
November's  gusts  unheeded  call ; 
Not  one  faint  breath  can  enter  here 
Enough  to  wave  my  daughter's  hair, 
And  I  am  glad  to  watch  the  blaze 
Glance  from  her  eyes,  with  mimic  rays ; 
To  feel  her  cheek,  so  softly  pressed, 
In  happy  quiet  on  my  breast. 

'  But,  yet,  even  this  tranquillity 
Brings  bitter,  restless  thoughts  to  me  ; 
And,  in  the  red  fire's  cheerful  glow, 
I  think  of  deep  glens,  blocked  with  snowj 
I  dream  of  moor,  and  misty  hill, 
Where  evening  closes  dark  and  chill ; 
For,  lone,  among  the  mountains  cold 
Lie  those  that  I  have  loved  of  old. 
And  my  heart  aches,  in  hopeless  pain, 
Exhausted  with  repinings  vain, 
That  I  shall  greet  them  ne'er  again  I ' 


FAITH  AND  DESPONDENCY  379 

'  Father,  in  early  infancy, 
When  you  were  far  beyond  the  sea, 
Such  thoughts  were  tyrants  over  me ! 
I  often  sat,  for  hours  together, 
Through  the  long  nights  of  angry  weather, 
Eaised  on  my  pillow,  to  descry 
The  dim  moon  struggling  in  the  sky ; 
Or,  with  strained  ear,  to  catch  the  shock, 
Of  rock  with  wave,  and  wave  with  rock ; 
So  would  I  fearful  vigil  keep, 
And,  all  for  listening,  never  sleep. 
But  this  world's  life  has  much  to  dread, 
Not  so,  my  Father,  with  the  dead. 

1  Oh  !  not  for  them,  should  we  despair, 
The  grave  is  drear,  but  they  are  not  there ; 
Their  dust  is  mingled  with  the  sod, 
Their  happy  souls  are  gone  to  God  ! 
You  told  me  this,  and  yet  you  sigh, 
And  murmur  that  your  friends  must  die. 
Ah  !  my  dear  father,  tell  me  why? 
For,  if  your  former  words  were  true, 

How  useless  would  such  sorrow  be ; 
As  wise,  to  mourn  the  seed  which  grew 

Unnoticed  on  its  parent  tree, 
Because  it  fell  in  fertile  earth, 
And  sprang  up  to  a  glorious  birth — 
Struck  deep  its  root,  and  lifted  high 
Its  green  boughs  in  the  breezy  sky. 

'  But  I'll  not  fear,  I  will  not  weep 
For  those  whose  bodies  rest  in  sleep, — 
I  know  there  is  a  blessed  shore, 

Opening  its  ports  for  me  and  mine ; 
And,  gazing  Time's  wide  waters  o'er, 

I  weary  for  that  land  divine, 


380  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 

Where  we  were  born,  where  you  and  I 
Shall  meet  our  dearest,  when  we  die  ; 
From  suffering  and  corruption  free, 
Restored  into  the  Deity.' 

'  Well  hast  thou  spoken,  sweet,  trustful  child ! 

And  wiser  than  thy  sire  ; 
And  worldly  tempests,  raging  wild, 

Shall  strengthen  thy  desire — 
Thy  fervent  hope,  through  storm  and  foam, 

Through  wind  and  ocean's  roar, 
To  reach,  at  last,  the  eternal  home, 

The  steadfast,  changeless  shore  ! ' 


STABS 

AH  !  why,  because  the  dazzling  sun 

Restored  our  Earth  to  joy, 
Have  you  departed,  every  one, 

And  left  a  desert  sky  ? 

All  through  the  night,  your  glorious  eyes 

Were  gazing  down  in  mine, 
And,  with  a  full  heart's  thankful  sighs, 

I  blessed  that  watch  divine. 

I  was  at  peace,  and  drank  your  beams 

As  they  were  life  to  me ; 
And  revelled  in  my  changeful  dreams, 

Lake  petrel  on  the  sea. 

Thought  followed  thought,  star  followed  star, 

Through  boundless  regions,  on  ; 
While  one  sweet  influence,  near  and  far, 

Thrilled  through,  and  proved  us  one  ! 


STARS  381 

Why  did  the  morning  dawn  to  break 

So  great,  so  pure,  a  spell ; 
And  scorch  with  fire  the  tranquil  cheek, 

Where  your  cool  radiance  fell  ? 

Blood-red,  he  rose,  and,  arrow-straight, 

His  fierce  beams  struck  my  brow ; 
The  soul  of  nature  sprang,  elate, 

But  mine  sank  sad  and  low  ! 

My  lids  closed  down,  yet  through  their  veil 

I  saw  him,  blazing,  still, 
And  steep  in  gold  the  misty  dale, 

And  flash  upon  the  hill. 

I  turned  me  to  the  pillow,  then, 

To  call  back  night,  and  see 
Your  worlds  of  solemn  light,  again, 

Throb  with  my  heart,  and  me  ! 

It  would  not  do — the  pillow  glowed, 

And  glowed  both  roof  and  floor  ; 
And  birds  sang  loudly  in  the  wood, 

And  fresh  winds  shook  the  door ; 

The  curtains  waved,  the  wakened  fliea 

Were  murmuring  round  my  room, 
Imprisoned  there,  till  I  should  rise, 

And  give  them  leave  to  roam. 

O  stars,  and  dreams,  and  gentle  night ; 

O  night  and  stars,  return  ! 
And  hide  me  from  the  hostile  light 

That  does  not  warm  but  burn ; 

That  drains  the  blood  of  suffering  men  ; 

Drinks  tears,  instead  of  dew  ; 
Let  me  sleep  through  his  blinding  reign, 

And  only  wake  with  you  ! 


382  POEMS  BY   ELLIS  BELL 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

ENOUGH  of  thought,  philosopher ! 

Too  long  hast  thou  been  dreaming 
Uulighteiied,  in  this  chamber  drear, 

While  summer's  sun  is  beaming  J 
Space- sweeping  soul,  what  sad  refrain 
Concludes  thy  musings  once  again  ? 

'  Oh,  for  the  time  when  I  shall  sleep 

Without  identity, 
And  never  care  how  rain  may  steep, 

Or  snow  may  cover  me  ! 
No  promised  heaven,  these  wild  desires 

Could  all,  or  half  fulfil ; 
No  threatened  hell,  with  quenchless  fires, 

Subdue  this  quenchless  will ! ' 

1  So  said  I,  and  still  say  the  same ; 

Still,  to  my  death,  will  say — 
Three  gods,  within  this  little  frame, 

Are  warring  night  and  day  ; 
Heaven  could  not  hold  them  all,  and  yet 

They  all  are  held  in  me  ; 
And  must  be  mine  till  I  forget 

My  present  entity ! 
Oh,  for  the  time,  when  in  my  breast 

Their  struggles  will  be  o'er  ! 
Oh,  for  the  day,  when  I  shall  rest, 

And  never  suffer  more ! ' 

'  I  saw  a  spirit,  standing,  man, 

Where  thou  dost  stand — an  hour  ago, 

And  round  his  feet  three  rivers  ran, 
Of  equal  depth,  and  equal  flow — 


'STRTTK   DEEP   ITS   TCOOT,   AND   LTFTF.T)   HTOn   ITS  ORF.KN   TCOTTGHS ' 


THE  PHILOSOPHEE  383 

A  golden  stream — and  one  like  blood  ; 

And  one  like  sapphire  seemed  to  be ; 
But  where  they  joined  their  triple  flood, 

It  tumbled  in  an  inky  sea. 
The  spirit  sent  his  dazzling  gaze 

Down  through  that  ocean's  gloomy  night ; 
Then,  kindling  all,  with  sudden  blaze, 

The  glad  deep  sparkled  wide  and  bright — 
White  as  the  sun,  far,  far  more  fair 
Than  its  divided  sources  were ! ' 

'  And  even  for  that  spirit,  seer, 

I've  watched  and  sought  my  life-time  long ; 
Sought  him  in  heaven,  hell,  earth,  and  air, 

An  endless  search,  and  always  wrong. 
Had  I  but  seen  his  glorious  eye 

Once  light  the  clouds  that  wilder  me 
I  ne'er  had  raised  this  coward  cry 

To  cease  to  think,  and  cease  to  be ; 
I  ne'er  had  called  oblivion  blest, 

Nor  stretching  eager  hands  to  death, 
Implored  to  change  for  senseless  rest 

This  sentient  soul,  this  living  breath — 
Oh,  let  me  die — that  power  and  will 

Their  cruel  strife  may  close ; 
And  conquered  good  and  conquering  ill 

Be  lost  in  one  repose ! ' 


BEMEMBEANCE 

COLD  in  the  earth — and  the  deep  snow  piled  above  thee, 
Far,  far  removed,  cold  in  the  dreary  grave  ! 

Have  I  forgot,  my  only  Love,  to  love  thee, 
Severed  at  last  by  Time's  all-severing  wave  ? 


384  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 

Now,  when  alone,  do  my  thoughts  no  longer  hover 
Over  the  mountains,  on  that  northern  shore, 

Resting  their  wings  where  heath  and  fern-leaves  cover 
Thy  noble  heart  for  ever,  ever  more  ? 

Cold  in  the  earth — and  fifteen  wild  Decembers, 
From  those  brown  hills,  have  melted  into  spring : 

Faithful,  indeed,  is  the  spirit  that  remembers 
After  such  years  of  change  and  suffering ! 

Sweet  Love  of  youth,  forgive,  if  I  forget  thee, 
While  the  world's  tide  is  bearing  me  along ; 

Other  desires  and  other  hopes  beset  me, 

Hopes  which  obscure,  but  cannot  do  thee  wrong  ! 

No  later  light  has  lightened  up  my  heaven, 
No  second  morn  has  ever  shone  for  me ; 

All  my  life's  bliss  from  thy  dear  life  was  given, 
All  my  life's  bliss  is  in  the  grave  with  thee. 

But  when  the  days  of  golden  dreams  had  perished, 
And  even  Despair  was  powerless  to  destroy  ; 

Then  did  I  learn  how  existence  could  be  cherished, 
Strengthened  and  fed  without  the  aid  of  joy. 

Then  did  I  check  the  tears  of  useless  passion — 
Weaned  my  young  soul  from  yearning  after  thine ; 

Sternly  denied  its  burning  wish  to  hasten 
Down  to  that  tomb  already  more  than  mine. 

And,  even  yet,  I  dare  not  let  it  languish, 

Dare  not  indulge  in  memory's  rapturous  pain ; 

Once  drinking  deep  of  that  divinest  anguish, 
How  could  I  seek  the  empty  world  again  ? 


THE  OUTCAST  MOTHER 

I'VE  seen  this  dell  in  July's  shine, 

As  lovely  as  an  angel's  dream  ; 
Above — Heaven's  depth  of  bine  divine, 

Around — the  evening's  golden  beam. 

I've  seen  the  purple  heather-bell 

Look  out  by  many  a  storm-worn  stone ; 

And,  oh  !  I've  known  such  music  swell, — 
Such  wild  notes  wake  these  passes  lone — 

So  soft,  yet  so  intensely  felt ; 

So  low,  yet  so  distinctly  heard  ; 
My  breath  would  pause,  my  eyes  would  melt, 

And  tears  would  dew  the  green  heath-sward. 

I'd  linger  heie  a  summer  day, 

Nor  care  how  fast  the  hours  flew  by, 

Nor  mark  the  sun's  departing  ray 
Smile  sadly  from  the  dark'ning  sky. 

Then,  then,  I  might  have  laid  me  down, 
And  dreamed  my  sleep  would  gentle  be ; 

I  might  have  left  thee,  darling  one, 

And  thought  thy  God  was  guarding  thee! 

But  now  there  is  no  wand'ring  glow, 
No  gleam  to  say  that  God  is  nigh  ; 

And  coldly  spreads  the  couch  of  snow, 
And  harshly  sounds  thy  lullaby. 

Forests  of  heather,  dark  and  long, 

Wave  their  brown  branching  arms  above  ; 

And  they  must  soothe  thee  with  their  song, 
And  they  must  shield  my  child  of  love. 


386  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 

Alas !  the  flakes  are  heavily  falling, 
They  cover  fast  each  guardian  crest ; 

And  chilly  white  their  shroud  is  palling 
Thy  frozen  limbs  and  freezing  breast. 

Wakes  up  the  storm  more  madly  wild, 
The  mountain  drifts  are  tossed  on  high ; 

Farewell,  unbless'd,  unfriended  child, 
I  cannot  bear  to  watch  thee  die ! 


A   DEATH-SCENE 

'  0  DAY  !  he  cannot  die 

When  thou  so  fair  art  shining  ! 

0  Sun,  in  such  a  glorious  sky 
So  tranquilly  declining ; 

'  He  cannot  leave  thee  now, 

While  fresh  west  winds  are  blowing, 
And  all  around  his  youthful  brow 

Thy  cheerful  light  is  glowing  ! 

1  Edward,  awake,  awake — 

The  golden  evening  gleams 
Warm  and  bright  on  Arden's  lake — 
Arouse  thee  from  thy  dreams  ! 

'  Beside  thee,  on  my  knee, 

My  dearest  friend,  I  pray 
That  thou,  to  cross  the  eternal  sea, 

Wouldst  yet  one  hour  delay  : 

'I  hear  its  billows  roar — 

I  see  them  foaming  high  ; 
But  no  glimpse  of  a  further  shore 

Has  blest  my  straining  eye. 


A  DEATH-SCENE  387 

'  Believe  not  what  they  urge 

Of  Eden  isles  beyond  ; 
Turn  back,  from  that  tempestuous  surge 

To  thy  own  native  land. 

'  It  is  not  death,  but  pain 

That  struggles  in  thy  breast — 
Nay,  rally,  Edward,  rouse  again ; 

I  cannot  let  thee  rest ! ' 

One  long  look,  that  sore  reproved  me 

For  the  woe  I  could  not  bear — 
One  mute  look  of  suffering  moved  me 

To  repent  my  useless  prayer  : 

And,  with  sudden  check,  the  heaving 

Of  distraction  passed  away ; 
Not  a  sign  of  further  grieving 

Stirred  my  soul  that  awful  day. 

Paled,  at  length,  the  sweet  sun  setting  ; 

Sunk  to  peace  the  twilight  breeze : 
Summer  dews  fell  softly,  wetting 

Glen,  and  glade,  and  silent  trees 

Then  his  eyes  began  to  weary, 
Weighed  beneath  a  mortal  sleep  ; 

And  their  orbs  grew  strangely  dreary, 
Clouded,  even  as  they  would  weep. 

But  they  wept  not,  but  they  changed  not, 
Never  moved,  and  never  closed ; 

Troubled  still,  and  still  they  ranged  not — 
Wandered  not,  nor  yet  reposed  ! 

So  I  knew  that  he  was  dying — 

Stooped,  and  raised  his  languid  head ; 

Felt  no  breath,  and  heard  no  sighing, 
So  I  knew  that  he  was  dead. 


388  POEMS  BY   ELLIS  BELL 


SONG 

THE  linnet  in  the  rocky  dells, 

The  moor-lark  in  the  air, 
The  bee  among  the  heather  bells 

That  hide  my  lady  fair  : 

The  wild  deer  browse  above  her  breast ; 

The  wild  birds  raise  their  brood ; 
And  they,  her  smiles  of  love  caressed, 

Have  left  her  solitude  ! 

I  ween,  that  when  the  grave's  dark  wall 

Did  first  her  form  retain, 
They  thought  their  hearts  could  ne'er  recall 

The  light  of  joy  again. 

They  thought  the  tide  of  grief  would  flow 
Unchecked  through  future  years ; 

But  where  is  all  their  anguish  now, 
And  where  are  all  their  tears  ? 

Well,  let  them  fight  for  honour's  breath, 

Or  pleasure's  shade  pursue — 
The  dweller  in  the  land  of  death 

Is  changed  and  careless  too. 

And,  if  their  eyes  should  watch  and  weep 

Till  sorrow's  source  were  dry, 
She  would  not,  in  her  tranquil  sleep, 

Return  a  single  sigh  ! 

Blow,  west  wind,  by  the  lonely  mound, 
And  murmur,  summer-streams — 

There  is  no  need  of  other  sound 
To  soothe  my  lady's  dreams. 


ANTICIPATION 

How  beautiful  the  earth  is  still, 

To  thee — how  full  of  happiness ! 
How  little  fraught  with  real  ill, 

Or  unreal  phantoms  of  distress  ! 
How  spring  can  bring  thee  glory,  yet, 
And  summer  win  thee  to  forget 

December's  sullen  time ! 
Why  dost  thou  hold  the  treasure  fast, 
Of  youth's  delight,  when  youth  is  past, 

And  thou  art  near  thy  prime  ? 

When  those  who  were  thy  own  compeers, 

Equals  in  fortune  and  in  years, 

Have  seen  their  morning  melt  in  tears, 

To  clouded,  smileless  day ; 
Blest,  had  they  died  untried  and  young, 
Before  their  hearts  went  wandering  wrong,- 
Poor  slaves,  subdued  by  passions  strong, 

A  weak  and  helpless  prey ! 

'  Because  I  hoped  while  they  enjoyed, 
And  by  fulfilment,  hope  destroyed ; 
As  children  hope,  with  trustful  breast, 
I  waited  bliss — and  cherished  rest. 
A  thoughtful  spirit  taught  me  soon, 
That  we  must  long  till  life  be  done ; 
That  every  phase  of  earthly  joy 
Must  always  fade,  and  always  cloy : 

1  This  I  foresaw — and  would  not  chase 
The  fleeting  treacheries ; 


390  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 

But,  with  firm  foot  and  tranquil  face, 
Held  backward  from  that  tempting  race, 
Gazed  o'er  the  sands  the  waves  efface, 

To  the  enduring  seas — 
There  cast  my  anchor  of  desire 

Deep  in  unknown  eternity ; 
Nor  ever  let  my  spirit  tire, 

With  looking  for  what  is  to  be/ 

*  It  is  hope's  spell  that  glorifies, 
Like  youth,  to  my  maturer  eyes, 
All  Nature's  million  mysteries, 

The  fearful  and  the  fair — 
Hope  soothes  me  in  the  griefs  I  know ; 
She  lulls  my  pain  for  others'  woe, 
And  makes  me  strong  to  undergo 

What  I  am  born  to  bear. 

'  Glad  comforter !  will  I  not  brave, 
Unawed,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ? 
Nay,  smile  to  hear  Death's  billows  rave- 
Sustained,  my  guide,  by  thee  ? 
The  more  unjust  seems  present  fate, 
The  more  my  spirit  swells  elate, 
Strong,  in  thy  strength,  to  anticipate 
Kewarding  destiny ! ' 


THE  PRISONER 

A   FRAGMENT 

IN  the  dungeon -crypts  idly  did  I  stray, 

Reckless  of  the  lives  wasting  there  away  ; 

'  Draw  the  ponderous  bars  !  open,  Warder  stern ! ' 

He  dared  not  say  me  nay — the  hinges  harshly  turn. 


THE  PRISONER  391 

'  Our  guests  are  darkly  lodged/  I  whisper'd,  gazing  through 
The  vault,  whose  grated  eye  showed  heaven  more  gray  than 

blue; 

(This  was  when  glad  Spring  laughed  in  awaking  pride ;) 
'  Ay,  darkly  lodged  enough  ! '  returned  my  sullen  guide. 

Then,  God  forgive  my  youth  ;  forgive  my  careless  tongue ; 
I  scoffed,  as  the  chill  chains  on  the  damp  flagstones  rung  : 
1  Confined  in  triple  walls,  art  thou  so  much  to  fear, 
That  we  must  bind  thee  down  and  clench  thy  fetters  here  ? ' 

The  captive  raised  her  face  ;  it  was  as  soft  and  mild 

As  sculptured  marble  saint,  or  slumbering  unwean'd  child ; 

It  was  so  soft  and  mild,  it  was  so  sweet  and  fair, 

Pain  could  not  trace  a  line,  nor  grief  a  shadow  there  ! 

The  captive  raised  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  brow  ; 
'  I  have  been  struck,'  she  said,  '  and  I  am  suffering  now ; 
Yet  these  are  little  worth  your  bolts  and  irons  strong  ; 
And,  were  they  forged  in  steel,  they  could  not  hold  me  long.' 

Hoarse  laughed  the  jailor  grim  :  '  Shall  I  be  won  to  hear  ; 
Dost  think,  fond,  dreaming  wretch,  that  I  shall  grant  thy 

prayer  ? 

Or,  better  still,  wilt  melt  my  master's  heart  with  groans? 
Ah  !  sooner  might  the  sun  thaw  down  these  granite  stones 

1  My  master's  voice  is  low,  his  aspect  bland  and  kind, 
But  hard  as  hardest  flint  the  soul  that  lurks  behind ; 
And  I  am  rough  and  rude,  yet  not  more  rough  to  see 
Than  is  the  hidden  ghost  that  has  its  home  in  me.' 

About  her  lips  there  played  a  smile  of  almost  scorn, 

'  My   friend,'   she   gently   said,    '  you   have   not   heard    me 

mourn ; 

When  you  my  kindred's  lives,  my  lost  life,  can  restore, 
Then  may  I  weep  and  sue, — but  never,  friend,  before  ! 


392  POEMS  BY   ELLIS  BELL 

'  Still,  let  my  tyrants  know,  I  am  not  doomed  to  wear 
Year  after  year  in  gloom,  and  desolate  despair ; 
A  messenger  of  Hope  comes  every  night  to  me, 
And  offers  for  short  life,  eternal  liberty. 

'  He  comes  with  western  winds,  with  evening's  wandering 

airs, 

With  that  clear  dusk  of  heaven  that  brings  the  thickest  stars. 
Winds  take  a  pensive  tone,  and  stars  a  tender  fire, 
And  visions  rise,  and  change,  that  kill  me  with  desire. 

'  Desire  for  nothing  known  in  my  maturer  years, 
When  Joy  grew  mad  with  awe,  at  counting  future  tears. 
When,  if  my  spirit's  sky  was  full  of  flashes  warm, 
I  knew  not  whence  they  came,  from  sun  or  thunderstorm. 

'  But,  fh'st,  a  hush  of  peace — a  soundless  calm  descends  ; 
The  struggle  of  distress,  and  fierce  impatience  ends ; 
Mute  music  soothes  my  breast — unuttei'ed  harmony, 
That  I  could  never  dream,  till  Earth  was  lost  to  me. 

'  Then  dawns  the  Invisible ;  the  Unseen  its  truth  reveals  ; 
My  outward  sense  is  gone,  my  inward  essence  feels  : 
Its  wings  are  almost  free — its  home,  its  harbour  found, 
Measuring  the  gulph,  it  stoops  and  dares  the  final  bound. 

'  Oh  !  dreadful  is  the  check — intense  the  agony — 
When  the  ear  begins  to  hear,  and  the  eye  begins  to  see  ; 
W7hen  the  pulse  begins  to  throb,  the  brain  to  think  again  ; 
The  soul  to  feel  the  flesh,  and  the  flesh  to  feel  the  chain. 

'  Yet  I  would  lose  no  sting,  would  wish  no  torture  less ; 
The  more  that  anguish  racks,  the  earlier  it  will  bless ; 
And  robed  in  fires  of  hell,  or  bright  with  heavenly  shine, 
If  it  bu,t  herald  death,  the  vision  is  divine  !  ' 


THE  PRISONER  393 

She  ceased  to  speak,  and  we,  unanswering,  turned  to  go — 
We  had  no  further  power  to  work  the  captive  woe  : 
Her  cheek,  her  gleaming  eye,  declared  that  man  had  given 
A  sentence,  unapproved,  and  overruled  by  Heaven. 


HOPE 

HOPE  was  but  a  timid  friend  ; 

She  sat  without  the  grated  den, 
Watching  how  my  fate  would  tend, 

Even  as  selfish -hearted  men. 

She  was  cruel  in  her  fear ; 

Through  the  bars  one  dreary  day, 
I  looked  out  to  see  her  there, 

And  she  turned  her  face  away  ! 

Like  a  false  guard,  false  watch  keeping, 
Still,  in  strife,  she  whispered  peace  ; 

She  would  sing  while  I  was  weeping  ; 
If  I  listened,  she  would  cease. 

False  she  was,  and  unrelenting  ; 

When  my  last  joys  strewed  the  ground, 
Even  Sorrow  saw,  repenting, 

Those  sad  relics  scattered  round ; 

Hope,  whose  whisper  would  have  given 

Balm  to  all  my  frenzied  pain, 
Stretched  her  wings,  and  soared  to  heaven, 

Went,  and  ne'er  returned  again  ! 


394       POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 


A  DAY  DEEAM 

ON  a  sunny  brae  alone  I  lay 

One  summer  afternoon ; 
It  was  the  marriage-time  of  May, 

With  her  young  lover,  June. 

From  her  mother's  heart  seemed  loth  to  part 

That  queen  of  bridal  charms, 
But  her  father  smiled  on  the  fairest  child 

He  ever  held  in  his  arms. 

The  trees  did  wave  their  plumy  crests, 

The  glad  birds  carolled  clear ; 
And  I,  of  all  the  wedding  guests, 

Was  only  sullen  there  ! 

There  was  not  one,  but  wished  to  shun 

My  aspect  void  of  cheer ; 
The  very  gray  rocks,  looking  on, 

Asked,  '  What  do  you  here  ?  ' 

And  I  could  utter  no  reply ; 

In  sooth,  I  did  not  know 
Why  I  had  brought  a  clouded  eye 

To  greet  the  general  glow. 

So,  resting  on  a  heathy  bank, 

I  took  my  heart  to  me  ; 
And  we  together  sadly  sank 

Into  a  reverie. 

We  thought,  '  When  winter  comes  again 
Where  will  these  bright  things  be  ? 

All  vanished,  like  a  vision  vain, 
An  unreal  mockery  ! 


A  DAY  DKEAM  395 

'  The  birds  that  now  so  blithely  sing, 

Through  deserts,  frozen  dry, 
Poor  spectres  of  the  perished  spring, 

In  famished  troops  will  fly. 

'  And  why  should  we  be  glad  at  all  ? 

The  leaf  is  hardly  green, 
Before  a  token  of  its  fall 

IB  on  the  surface  seen ! ' 

Now,  whether  it  were  really  so, 

I  never  could  be  sure ; 
But  as  in  fit  of  peevish  woe 

I  stretched  me  on  the  moor, 

A  thousand  thousand  gleaming  fires 

Seemed  kindling  in  the  air  ; 
A  thousand  thousand  silvery  lyres 

Kesounded  far  and  near  : 

Methought  the  very  breath  I  breathed 

Was  full  of  sparks  divine, 
And  all  my  heather-couch  was  wreathed 

By  that  celestial  shine ! 

And,  while  the  wide  earth  echoing  rung 

To  that  strange  minstrelsy, 
The  little  glittering  spirits  sung, 

Or  seemed  to  sing,  to  me  : 

'  0  mortal !  mortal !  let  them  die  J 

Let  time  and  tears  destroy, 
That  we  may  overflow  the  sky 

With  universal  joy ! 


396  POEMS  BY   ELLIS  BELL 

'  Let  grief  distract  the  sufferer's  breast, 
And  night  obscure  his  way  ; 

They  hasten  him  to  endless  rest, 
And  everlasting  day. 

'  To  thee  the  world  is  like  a  tomb, 

A  desert's  naked  shore ; 
To  us,  in  unimagined  bloom, 

It  brightens  more  and  more ! 

'  And,  could  we  lift  the  veil,  and  give 
One  brief  glimpse  to  thine  eye, 

Thou  wouldst  rejoice  for  those  that  live, 
Because  they  live  to  die.' 

The  music  ceased  ;  the  noonday  dream, 
Like  dream  of  night,  withdrew  ; 

But  Fancy,  still,  will  sometimes  deem 
Her  fond  creation  true. 


TO  IMAGINATION 

WHEN  weary  with  the  long  day's  care, 
And  earthly  change  from  pain  to  pain, 

And  lost,  and  ready  to  despair, 

Thy  kind  voice  calls  me  back  again  : 

O  my  true  friend  !  I  am  not  lone, 

While  thou  canst  speak  with  such  a  tone ! 

So  hopeless  is  the  world  without, 
The  world  within  I  doubly  prize  ; 

Thy  world,  where  guile,  and  hate,  and  doubt, 
And  cold  suspicion  never  rise ; 

Where  thou,  and  I,  and  Liberty, 

Have  undisputed  sovereignty. 


TO  IMAGINATION  39? 

What  matters  it,  that  all  around 
Danger,  and  guilt,  and  darkness  lie, 

If  but  within  our  bosom's  bound 
We  hold  a  bright,  untroubled  sky, 

Warm  with  ten  thousand  mingled  rays 

Of  suns  that  know  no  winter  days  ? 

Reason,  indeed,  may  oft  complain 

For  Nature's  sad  reality, 
And  tell  the  suffering  heart  how  vain 

Its  cherished  dreams  must  always  be ; 
And  Truth  may  rudely  trample  down 
The  flowers  of  Fancy,  newly-blown. 

But  thou  art  ever  there,  to  bring 
The  hovering  vision  back,  and  breathe 

New  glories  o'er  the  blighted  spring, 
And  call  a  lovelier  Life  from  Death, 

And  whisper,  with  a  voice  divine, 

Of  real  worlds,  as  bright  as  thine. 

I  trust  not  to  thy  phantom  bliss, 

Yet,  still,  in  evening's  quiet  hour, 
With  never-failing  thankfulness, 

I  welcome  thee,  Benignant  Power ; 
Sure  solacer  of  human  cares, 
And  sweeter  hope,  when  hope  despairs ! 


HOW   CLEAK   SHE   SHINES 

How  clear  she  shines  !     How  quietly 
I  lie  beneath  her  guardian  light  ; 

While  heaven  and  earth  are  whispering  me, 
'  To-morrow  wake,  but  dream  to-night.' 


398  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 

Yes,  Fancy,  come,  my  Fairy  love  ! 

These  throbbing  temples  softly  kiss  ; 
And  bend  my  lonely  couch  above, 

And  bring  me  rest,  and  bring  me  bliss. 

The  world  is  going  ;  dark  world,  adieu ! 

Grim  world,  conceal  thee  till  the  day ; 
The  heart  thou  canst  not  all  subdue 

Must  still  resist,  if  thou  delay  ! 

Thy  love  I  will  not,  will  not  share  ; 

Thy  hatred  only  wakes  a  smile  ; 
Thy  griefs  may  wound — thy  wrongs  may  tear, 

But,  oh,  thy  lies  shall  ne'er  beguile ! 

While  gazing  on  the  stars  that  glow 
Above  me,  in  that  stormless  sea, 

I  long  to  hope  that  all  the  woe 
Creation  knows,  is  held  in  thee  ! 

And  this  shall  be  my  dream  to-night ; 

I'll  think  the  heaven  of  glorious  spheres 
Is  rolling  on  its  course  of  light 

In  endless  bliss,  through  endless  years  ; 
I'll  think,  there's  not  one  world  above, 

Far  as  these  straining  eyes  can  see, 
Where  Wisdom  ever  laughed  at  Love, 

Or  Virtue  crouched  to  Infamy  ; 

Where,  writhing  'neath  the  strokes  of  Fate, 

The  mangled  wretch  was  forced  to  smile ; 
To  match  his  patience  'gainst  her  hate, 

His  heart  rebellious  all  the  while  : 
Where  Pleasure  still  will  lead  to  wrong, 

And  helpless  Reason  warn  in  vain  ; 
And  Truth  is  weak,  and  Treachery  strong ; 

And  Joy  the  surest  path  to  Pain  ; 


HOW  CLEAR   SHE   SHINES  399 

And  Peace,  the  lethargy  of  Grief ; 

And  Hope,  a  phantom  of  the  soul  ; 
And  life,  a  labour,  void  and  brief ; 

And  Death,  the  despot  of  the  whole  f 


SYMPATHY 

THERE  should  be  no  despair  for  you 

While  nightly  stars  are  burning  ; 
While  evening  pours  its  silent  dew, 

And  sunshine  gilds  the  morning. 
There  should  be  no  despair — though  tears 

May  flow  down  like  a  river  : 
Are  not  the  best  beloved  of  years 

Around  your  heart  for  ever  ? 

They  weep,  you  weep,  it  must  be  so ; 

Winds  sigh  as  you  are  sighing, 
And  Winter  sheds  its  grief  in  snow 

Where  Autumn's  leaves  are  lying : 
Yet  these  revive,  and  from  their  fate 

Your  fate  cannot  be  parted  : 
Then,  journey  on,  if  not  elate, 

Still,  never  broken-hearted ! 


PLEAD  FOE  ME 

OH,  thy  bright  eyes  must  answer  now, 
When  Reason,  with  a  scornful  brow, 
Is  mocking  at  my  overthrow  ! 
Oh,  thy  sweet  tongue  must  plead  for  me 
And  tell  why  I  have  chosen  thee  ! 


400  POEMS  BY   ELLIS  BELL 

Stern  Reason  is  to  judgment  come, 
Arrayed  in  all  her  forms  of  gloom  : 
Wilt  thou,  my  advocate,  be  dumb  ? 
No,  radiant  angel,  speak  and  say, 
Why  I  did  cast  the  world  away, — 

Why  I  have  persevered  to  shun 
The  common  paths  that  others  run, 
And  on  a  strange  road  journeyed  on, 
Heedless  alike  of  wealth  and  power — 
Of  glory's  wreath  and  pleasure's  flower. 

These  once,  indeed,  seemed  Beings  Divine ; 
And  they,  perchance,  heard  vows  of  mine, 
And  saw  my  offerings  on  their  shrine ; 
But  careless  gifts  are  seldom  prized, 
And  mine,  were  worthily  despised. 

So,  with  a  ready  heart,  I  swore 
To  seek  their  altar-stone  no  more  ; 
And  gave  my  spirit  to  adore 
Thee,  ever-present,  phantom  thing — 
My  slave,  my  comrade,  and  my  king. 

A  slave,  because  I  rule  thee  still, 
Incline  thee  to  my  changeful  will, 
And  make  thy  influence  good  or  ill : 
A  comrade,  for  by  day  and  night 
Thou  art  my  intimate  delight, — 

My  darling  pain  that  wounds  and  sears, 
And  wrings  a  blessing  out  from  tears 
By  deadening  me  to  earthly  cares  ; 
And  yet,  a  king,  though  Prudence  well 
Have  taught  thy  subject  to  rebel. 


PLEAD  FOB  MB  401 

And  am  I  wrong  to  worship  where 
Faith  cannot  doubt,  nor  hope  despair, 
Since  my  own  soul  can  grant  my  prayer  ? 
Speak,  God  of  visions,  plead  for  me, 
And  tell  why  I  have  chosen  thee  1 


SELF-INTERBOGATION 

'  THE  evening  passes  fast  away, 

'Tis  almost  time  to  rest ; 
What  thoughts  has  left  the  vanished  day, 

What  feelings  in  thy  breast  ?  ' 

'  The  vanished  day  ?    It  leaves  a  sense 

Of  labour  hardly  done  ; 
Of  little  gained  with  vast  expense — 

A  sense  of  grief  alone  ! 

'  Time  stands  before  the  door  of  Death, 

Upbraiding  bitterly ; 
And  Conscience,  with  exhaustless  breath, 

Pours  black  reproach  on  me  : 

1  And  though  I've  said  that  Conscience  lies 
And  Time  should  Fate  condemn  ; 

Still,  sad  Repentance  clouds  my  eyes, 
And  makes  me  yield  to  them  ! ' 

'  Then  art  thou  glad  to  seek  repose  ? 

Art  glad  to  leave  the  sea, 
And  anchor  all  thy  weary  woes 

In  calm  Eternity  ? 

'  Nothing  regrets  to  see  thee  go — 
Not  one  voice  sobs  "  farewell  "  ; 

And  where  thy  heart  has  suffered  so, 
Canst  thou  desire  to  dwell  ?  ' 


402  POEMS  BY  ELLIS   BELL 

1  Alas !  the  countless  links  are  strong 

That  bind  us  to  our  clay ; 
The  loving  spirit  lingers  long, 

And  would  not  pass  away  ! 

1  And  rest  is  sweet,  when  laurelled  fame 
Will  crown  the  soldier's  crest ; 

But  a  brave  heart,  with  a  tarnished  name, 
Would  rather  fight  than  rest.' 

1  Well,  thou  hast  fought  for  many  a  year, 
Hast  fought  thy  whole  life  through, 

Hast  humbled  Falsehood,  trampled  Fear  ; 
What  is  there  left  to  do  ? ' 

'  'Tis  true,  this  arm  has  hotly  striven, 
Has  dared  what  few  would  dare ; 

Much  have  I  done,  and  freely  given, 
But  little  learnt  to  bear ! ' 

'  Look  on  the  grave  where  thou  must  sleep, 

Thy  last  and  strongest  foe  ; 
It  is  endurance  not  to  weep, 

If  that  repose  seem  woe — 

'  The  long  war  closing  in  defeat — 

Defeat  serenely  borne, — 
Thy  midnight  rest  may  still  be  sweet, 

And  break  in  glorious  morn  I ' 


DEATH 

DEATH  !  that  struck  when  I  was  most  confiding 

In  my  certain  faith  of  joy  to  be — 
Strike  again,  Time's  withered  branch  dividing 

From  the  fresh  root  of  Eternity ! 


DEATH  403 

Leaves,  upon  Time's  branch,  were  growing  brightly, 

Full  of  sap,  and  full  of  silver  dew ; 
Birds  beneath  its  shelter  gathered  nightly ; 

Daily  round  its  flowers  the  wild  bees  flew. 

Sorrow  passed,  and  plucked  the  golden  blossom  ; 

Guilt  stripped  off  the  foliage  in  its  pride  ; 
But,  within  its  parent's  kindly  bosom, 

Flowed  for  ever  Life's  restoring  tide. 

Little  mourned  I  for  the  parted  gladness, 

For  the  vacant  nest  and  silent  song — 
Hope  was  there,  and  laughed  me  out  of  sadness, 

Whispering,  '  Winter  will  not  linger  long  ! ' 

And,  behold  !  with  tenfold  increase  blessing, 
Spring  adorned  the  beauty -burdened  spray  ; 

Wind  and  rain  and  fervent  heat,  caressing, 
Lavished  glory  on  that  second  May  ! 

High  it  rose — no  winged  grief  could  sweep  it ; 

Sin  was  scared  to  distance  with  its  shine  ; 
Love,  and  its  own  life,  had  power  to  keep  it 

From  all  wrong — from  every  blight  but  thine  ! 

Cruel  Death  !    The  young  leaves  droop  and  languish ; 

Evening's  gentle  air  may  still  restore — 
No !  the  morning  sunshine  mocks  my  anguish — 

Time,  for  me,  must  never  blossom  more  1 

Strike  it  down,  that  other  boughs  may  flourish 
Where  that  perished  sapling  used  to  be ; 

Thus,  at  least,  its  mouldering  corpse  will  nourish 
That  from  which  it  sprung— Eternity. 


404  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 


STANZAS  TO 


WELL,  some  may  hate,  and  some  may  scorn, 

And  some  may  quite  forget  thy  name ; 
But  my  sad  heart  must  ever  mourn 

Thy  ruined  hopes,  thy  blighted  fame  I 
'Twas  thus  I  thought,  an  hour  ago, 
Even  weeping  o'er  that  wretch's  woe ; 
One  word  turned  back  my  gushing  tears, 
And  lit  my  altered  eye  with  sneers. 
Then  '  Bless  the  friendly  dust,'  I  said, 
'  That  hides  thy  unlamented  head ! 
Vain  as  thou  wert,  and  weak  as  vain, 
The  slave  of  Falsehood,  Pride,  and  Pain — 
My  heart  has  nought  akin  to  thine ; 
Thy  soul  is  powerless  over  mine.' 
But  these  were  thoughts  that  vanished  too : 
Unwise,  unholy,  and  untrue  : 
Do  I  despise  the  timid  deer, 
Because  his  limbs  are  fleet  with  fear  ? 
Or,  would  I  mock  the  wolf's  death-howl, 
Because  his  form  is  gaunt  and  foul  ? 
Or,  hear  with  joy  the  leveret's  cry, 
Because  it  cannot  bravely  die  ? 
No  !     Then  above  his  memory 
Let  Pity's  heart  as  tender  be  ; 
Say,  '  Earth,  lie  lightly  on  that  breast, 
And,  kind  Heaven,  grant  that  spirit  rest  I  * 


HONOUK'S   MARTYR 

THE  moon  is  full  this  winter  night ; 

The  stars  are  clear,  though  few ; 
And  every  window  glistens  bright 

With  lenves  of  frozen  dew. 


HONOUR'S  MARTYR  405 

The  sweet  moon  through  your  lattice  gleams, 

And  lights  your  room  like  day  ; 
And  there  you  pass,  in  happy  dreams, 

The  peaceful  hours  away  ! 

While  I,  with  effort  hardly  quelling 

The  anguish  in  my  breast, 
Wander  about  the  silent  dwelling, 

And  cannot  think  of  rest. 

The  old  clock  in  the  gloomy  hall 

Ticks  on,  from  hour  to  hour ; 
And  every  time  its  measured  call 

Seems  lingering  slow  and  slower : 

And,  oh,  how  slow  that  keen-eyed  star 

Has  tracked  the  chilly  gray  ! 
What,  watching  yet !  how  very  far 

The  morning  lies  away  ! 

Without  your  chamber  door  I  stand ; 

Love,  are  you  slumbering  still  ? 
My  cold  heart,  underneath  my  hand, 

Has  almost  ceased  to  thrill. 

Bleak,  bleak  the  east  wind  sobs  and  sighs, 

And  drowns  the  turret  bell, 
Whose  sad  note,  undistinguished,  dies 

Unheard,  like  my  farewell ! 

To-morrow,  Scorn  will  blight  my  name, 

And  Hate  will  trample  me, 
Will  load  me  with  a  coward's  shame — 

A  traitor's  perjury. 

False  friends  will  launch  their  covert  sneers ; 

True  friends  will  wish  me  dead  ; 
And  I  shall  cause  the  bitterest  tears 

That  you  have  ever  shed. 


406  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 

The  dark  deeds  of  my  outlawed  race 
Will  then  like  virtues  shine ; 

And  men  will  pardon  their  disgrace 
Beside  the  guilt  of  mine. 

For,  who  forgives  the  accursed  crime 

Of  dastard  treachery  ? 
Rebellion,  in  its  chosen  time, 

May  Freedom's  champion  be ; 

Revenge  may  stain  a  righteous  sword, 

It  may  be  just  to  slay ; 
But,  traitor,  traitor, — from  that  word 

All  true  breasts  shrink  away  ! 

Oh,  I  would  give  my  heart  to  death, 
To  keep  my  honour  fair ; 

Yet,  I'll  not  give  my  inward  faith 
My  honour's  name  to  spare ! 

Not  even  to  keep  your  priceless  love, 
Dare  I,  Beloved,  deceive  ; 

This  treason  should  the  future  prove, 
Then,  only  then,  believe  ! 

I  know  the  path  I  ought  to  go ; 

I  follow  fearlessly, 
Inquiring  not  what  deeper  woe 

Stern  duty  stores  for  me. 

So  foes  pursue,  and  cold  allies 
Mistrust  me,  every  one : 

Let  me  be  false  in  others'  eyes, 
If  faithful  in  my  own. 


STANZAS 

I'LL  not  weep  that  thou  art  going  to  leave  me 

There's  nothing  lovely  here ; 
And  doubly  will  the  dark  world  grieve  me, 

While  thy  heart  suffers  there. 

I'll  not  weep,  because  the  summer's  glory 

Must  always  end  in  gloom ; 
And,  follow  out  the  happiest  story — 

It  closes  with  a  tomb ! 

And  I  am  weary  of  the  anguish 

Increasing  winters  bear ; 
Weary  to  watch  the  spirit  languish 

Through  years  of  dead  despair. 

So,  if  a  tear,  when  thou  art  dying, 

Should  haply  fall  from  me, 
It  is  but  that  my  soul  is  sighing, 

To  go  and  rest  with  thee. 


MY  COMFORTER 

WELL  hast  thou  spoken,  and  yet  not  taught 

A  feeling  strange  or  new  ; 
Thou  hast  but  roused  a  latent  thought, 
A  cloud-closed  beam  of  sunshine  brought 

To  gleam  in  open  view. 

Deep  down,  concealed  within  my  soul, 

That  light  lies  hid  from  men  ; 
Yet  glows  un  quenched— though  shadows  roll 
Its  gentle  ray  cannot  control — 

About  the  sullen  den. 


408  POEMS  BY  ELLIS  BELL 

Was  I  not  vexed,  in  these  gloomy  ways 

To  walk  alone  so  long  ? 
Around  me,  wretches  uttering  praise, 
Or  howling  o'er  their  hopeless  days, 

And  each  with  frenzy's  tongue  ; — 

A  brotherhood  of  misery, 
Their  smiles  as  sad  as  sighs  ; 

Whose  madness  daily  maddened  me, 

Distorting  into  agony 

The  bliss  before  my  eyes  ! 

So  stood  I,  in  Heaven's  glorious  sun, 

And  in  the  glare  of  Hell ; 
My  spirit  drank  a  mingled  tone, 
Of  seraph's  song,  and  demon's  moan  ; 
What  my  soul  bore,  my  soul  alone 

Within  itself  may  tell ! 

Like  a  soft  air  above  a  sea, 
Tossed  by  the  tempest's  stir  ; 

A  thaw-wind,  melting  quietly 

The  snow-drift  on  some  wintry  lea ; 

No  :  what  sweet  thing  resembles  thee, 
My  thoughtful  Comforter  ? 

And  yet  a  little  longer  speak, 
Calm  this  resentful  mood  ; 

And  while  the  savage  heart  grows  meek, 

For  other  token  do  not  seek, 

But  let  the  tear  upon  my  cheek 
Evince  my  gratitude ! 


THE  OLD  STOIC 

BICHEB  I  hold  in  light  esteem, 
And  Love  I  laugh  to  scorn  ; 

And  lust  of  fame  was  but  a  dream, 
That  vanished  with  the  morn  : 

And  if  I  pray,  the  only  prayer 
That  moves  my  lips  for  me 

Is,  '  Leave  the  heart  that  now  I  bear, 
And  give  me  liberty ! ' 

Yes,  as  my  swift  days  near  their  goal, 

'Tis  all  that  I  implore  ; 
In  life  and  death  a  chainless  soul, 

With  courage  to  endure. 


POEMS   BY  ACTON   BELL 


A  EEMINISCENCB 

YES,  thou  art  gone  !  and  never  more 
Thy  sunny  smile  shall  gladden  me ; 

But  I  may  pass  the  old  church  door, 
And  pace  the  floor  that  covers  thee, 

May  stand  upon  the  cold,  damp  stone, 
And  think  that,  frozen,  lies  below 

The  lightest  heart  that  I  have  known, 
The  kindest  I  shall  ever  know. 

Yet,  though  I  cannot  see  thee  more, 
'Tis  still  a  comfort  to  have  seen  ; 

And  though  thy  transient  life  is  o'er, 
'Tis  sweet  to  think  that  thou  hast  been ; 

To  think  a  soul  so  near  divine, 

Within  a  form  so  angel  fair, 
United  to  a  heart  like  thine, 

Has  gladdened  once  our  humble  sphere. 


'BUT   I  MAY  PASS   THE   OLD   CHURCH  DOOR* 


THE   ARBOUR 

I'LL  rest  me  in  this  sheltered  bower, 
And  look  upon  the  clear  blue  sky 

That  smiles  upon  me  through  the  trees, 
Which  stand  so  thickly  clustering  by ; 

And  view  their  green  and  glossy  leaves, 
All  glistening  in  the  sunshine  fair ; 

And  list  the  rustling  of  their  boughs, 
So  softly  whispering  through  the  air. 

And  while  my  ear  drinks  in  the  sound, 
My  winged  soul  shall  fly  away  ; 

Reviewing  long  departed  years 

As  one  mild,  beaming,  autumn  day ; 

And  soaring  on  to  future  scenes, 

Like  hills  and  woods,  and  valleys  green, 

All  basking  in  the  summer's  sun, 
But  distant  still,  and  dimly  seen. 

Oh,  list !  'tis  summer's  very  breath 
That  gently  shakes  the  rustling  trees — 

But  look !  the  snow  is  on  the  ground — 
How  can  I  think  of  scenes  like  these  ? 

'Tis  but  the  frost  that  clears  the  air, 
And  gives  the  sky  that  lovely  blue ; 

They're  smiling  in  a  winter's  sun, 
Those  evergreens  of  sombre  hue. 

And  winter's  chill  is  on  my  heart — 
How  can  I  dream  of  future  bliss  ? 

How  can  my  spirit  soar  away, 
Confined  by  such  a  chain  as  this 


412  POEMS  BY  ACTON   BELL 


HOME 

How  brightly  glistening  in  the  sun 

The  woodland  ivy  plays  ! 
While  yonder  beeches  from  their  barks 

Keflect  his  silver  rays. 

That  sun  surveys  a  lovely  scene 

From  softly  smiling  skies  ; 
And  wildly  through  unnumbered  trees 

The  wind  of  winter  sighs  : 

Now  loud,  it  thunders  o'er  my  head, 

And  now  in  distance  dies. 
But  give  me  back  my  barren  hills, 

Where  colder  breezes  rise  ; 

Where  scarce  the  scattered,  stunted  trees 
Can  yield  an  answering  swell, 

But  where  a  wilderness  of  heath 
Returns  the  sound  as  well. 

For  yonder  garden,  fair  and  wide, 

With  groves  of  evergreen, 
Long  winding  walks,  and  borders  trim, 

And  velvet  lawns  between — 

Eestore  to  me  that  little  spot, 

With  gray  walls  compassed  round, 

Where  knotted  grass  neglected  lies, 
And  weeds  usurp  the  ground. 

Though  all  around  this  mansion  high 

Invites  the  foot  to  roam, 
And  though  its  halls  are  fair  within — 

Oh,  give  me  back  my 


VANITAS  VANITATUM,  OMNIA  VANITAS 

IN  all  we  do,  and  hear,  and  see, 
Is  restless  Toil  and  Vanity. 
While  yet  the  rolling  earth  abides, 
Men  come  and  go  like  ocean  tides ; 

And  ere  one  generation  dies, 
Another  in  its  place  shall  rise  ; 
That,  sinking  soon  into  the  grave, 
Others  succeed,  like  wave  on  wave  ; 

And  as  they  rise,  they  pass  away. 
The  sun  arises  every  day, 
And  hastening  onward  to  the  West, 
He  nightly  sinks,  but  not  to  rest : 

Returning  to  the  eastern  skies, 
Again  to  light  us,  he  must  rise. 
And  still  the  restless  wind  comes  forth, 
Now  blowing  keenly  from  the  North  ; 

Now  from  the  South,  the  East,  the  West. 
For  ever  changing,  ne'er  at  rest. 
The  fountains,  gushing  from  the  hills, 
Supply  the  ever-running  rills ; 

The  thirsty  rivers  drink  their  store, 
And  bear  it  rolling  to  the  shore, 
But  still  the  ocean  craves  for  more. 
'Tis  endless  labour  everywhere  ! 
Sound  cannot  satisfy  the  ear, 

Light  cannot  fill  the  craving  eye, 
Nor  riches  half  our  wants  supply, 
Pleasure  but  doubles  future  pain, 
And  joy  brings  sorrow  in  her  train ; 


414  POEMS  BY  ACTON   BELL 

Laughter  is  mad,  and  reckless  mirth — 
What  does  she  in  this  weary  earth  ? 
Should  Wealth,  or  Fame,  our  Life  employ, 
Death  comes,  our  labour  to  destroy ; 

To  snatch  the  untasted  cup  away, 
For  which  we  toiled  so  many  a  day. 
What,  then,  remains  foV  wretched  man  ? 
To  use  life's  comforts  while  he  can. 

Enjoy  the  hlessings  Heaven  bestows, 
Assist  his  friends,  forgive  his  foes  ; 
Trust  God,  and  keep  His  statutes  still, 
Upright  and  firm,  through  good  and  ill ; 

Thankful  for  all  that  God  has  given, 
Fixing  his  firmest  hopes  on  Heaven ; 
Knowing  that  earthly  joys  decay, 
But  hoping  through  the  darkest  day. 


THE  PENITENT 

I  MOURN  with  thee,  and  yet  rejoice 
That  thou  shouldst  sorrow  so ; 

With  angel  choirs  I  join  my  voice 
To  bless  the  sinner's  woe. 

Though  friends  and  kindred  turn  away, 
And  laugh  thy  grief  to  scorn  ; 

I  hear  the  great  Redeemer  say, 
'  Blessed  are  ye  that  mourn.' 

Hold  on  thy  course,  nor  deem  it  strange 
That  earthly  cords  are  riven  : 

Man  may  lament  the  wondrous  change, 
But  '  there  is  joy  in  heaven  !  ' 


MUSIC  ON  CHRISTMAS  MORNING 

Music  I  love — but  never  strain 
Could  kindle  raptures  so  divine, 

So  grief  assuage,  so  conquer  pain, 
And  rouse  this  pensive  heart  of  mine — 

As  that  we  hear  on  Christmas  morn 

Upon  the  wintry  breezes  borne. 

Though  Darkness  still  her  empire  keep, ' 
And  hours  must  pass,  ere  morning  break ; 

From  troubled  dreams,  or  slumbers  deep, 
That  music  kindly  bids  us  wake  : 

It  calls  us,  with  an  angel's  voice, 

To  wake,  and  worship,  and  rejoice ; 

To  greet  with  joy  the  glorious  morn, 
Which  angels  welcomed  long  ago, 

When  our  redeeming  Lord  was  born, 
To  bring  the  light  of  Heaven  below ; 

The  Powers  of  Darkness  to  dispel, 

And  rescue  Earth  from  Death  and  Hell. 

While  listening  to  that  sacred  strain, 
My  raptured  spirit  soars  on  high  ; 

I  seem  to  hear  those  songs  again 
Resounding  through  the  open  sky, 

That  kindled  such  divine  delight, 

In  those  who  watched  their  flocks  by  night. 

With  them  I  celebrate  his  birth — 
Glory  to  God  in  highest  Heaven, 

Good-will  to  men,  and  peace  on  earth, 
To  us  a  Saviour-king  is  given  ; 

Our  God  is  come  to  claim  His  own, 

And  Satan's  power  is  overthrown ! 


416  POEMS  BY  ACTON   BELL 

A  sinless  God,  for  sinful  men, 
Descends  to  suffer  and  to  bleed  ; 

Hell  must  renounce  its  empire  then  ; 
The  price  is  paid,  the  world  is  freed, 

And  Satan's  self  must  now  confess 

That  Christ  has  earned  a  Bight  to  bless  : 

Now  holy  Peace  may  smile  from  Heaven, 
And  heavenly  Truth  from  earth  shall  spring ; 

The  captive's  galling  bonds  are  riven, 
For  our  Redeemer  is  our  King ; 

And  He  that  gave  His  blood  for  men 

Will  lead  us  home  to  God  again. 


STANZAS 

OH,  weep  not,  love  !  each  tear  that  springs 

In  those  dear  eyes  of  thine, 
To  me  a  keener  suffering  brings 

Than  if  they  flowed  from  mine. 

And  do  not  droop  !  however  drear 

The  fate  awaiting  thee  ; 
For  my  sake  combat  pain  and  care, 

And  cherish  life  for  me  ! 

I  do  not  fear  thy  love  will  fail ; 

Thy  faith  is  true,  I  know ; 
But,  oh,  my  love  !  thy  strength  is  frail 

For  such  a  life  of  woe. 

Were  't  not  for  this,  I  well  could  trace 
(Though  banished  long  from  thee) 

Life's  rugged  path,  and  boldly  face 
The  storms  that  threaten  me. 


STANZAS  417 

Fear  not  for  me — I've  steeled  my  mind 

Sorrow  and  strife  to  greet ; 
Joy  with  my  love  I  leave  behind, 

Care  with  my  friends  I  meet. 

A  mother's  sad  reproachful  eye, 

A  father's  scowling  brow — 
But  he  may  frown  and  she  may  sigh  : 
I  will  not  break  my  vow  ! 

I  love  my  mother,  I  revere 

My  sire,  but  fear  not  me — 
Believe  that  Death  alone  can  tear 

This  faithful  heart  from  thee. 


IP  THIS  BE  ALL 

O  GOD  !  if  this  indeed  be  all 
That  Life  can  show  to  me ; 

If  on  my  aching  brow  may  fall 
No  freshening  dew  from  Thee  ; 

If  with  no  brighter  light  than  this 
The  lamp  of  hope  may  glow, 

And  I  may  only  dream  of  bliss, 
And  wake  to  weary  woe  ; 

If  friendship's  solace  must  decay, 
When  other  joys  are  gone, 

And  love  must  keep  so  far  away, 
While  I  go  wandering  on, — 

Wandering  and  toiling  without  gain, 

The  slave  of  others'  will, 
With  constant  care  and  frequent  pain, 

Despised,  forgotten  still ;  • 


418  POEMS  BY  ACTON  BELL 

Grieving  to  look  on  vice  and  sin, 
Yet  powerless  to  quell 

The  silent  current  from  within, 
The  outward  torrent's  swell ; 

While  all  the  good  I  would  impart, 
The  feelings  I  would  share, 

Are  driven  backward  to  my  heart, 
And  turned  to  wormwood  there ; 

If  clouds  must  ever  keep  from  sight 
The  glories  of  the  Sun, 

And  I  must  suffer  Winter's  blight, 
Ere  Summer  is  begun  : 

If  Life  must  be  so  full  of  care — 
Then  call  me  soon  to  thee ; 

Or  give  me  strength  enough  to  bear 
My  load  of  misery. 


MEMORY 

BRIGHTLY  the  sun  of  summer  shone 
Green  fields  and  waving  woods  upon, 

And  soft  winds  wandered  by  ; 
Above  a  sky  of  purest  blue, 
Around,  bright  flowers  of  loveliest  huef 

Allured  the  gazer's  eye. 

But  what  were  all  these  charms  to  me, 
When  one  sweet  breath  of  memory 

Came  gently  wafting  by  ? 
I  closed  my  eyes  against  the  day, 
And  called  my  willing  soul  away, 

From  earth,  and  air,  and  sky ; 


MEMOEY 

That  I  might  simply  fancy  there 
One  little  flower — a  primrose  fair, 

Just  opening  into  sight ; 
As  in  the  days  of  infancy, 
An  opening  primrose  seemed  to  me 

A  source  of  strange  delight. 

Sweet  Memory !  ever  smile  on  me  ; 
Nature's  chief  beauties  spring  from  thee  J 

Oh,  still  thy  tribute  bring  ! 
Still  make  the  golden  crocus  shine 
Among  the  flowers  the  most  divine, 

The  glory  of  the  spring. 

Still  in  the  wallflower's  fragrance  dwell ; 
And  hover  round  the  slight  blue-bell, 

My  childhood's  darling  flower. 
Smile  on  the  little  daisy  still, 
The  buttercup's  bright  goblet  fill 

With  all  thy  former  power. 

For  ever  hang  thy  dreamy  spell 
Eound  mountain  star  and  heather  bell, 

And  do  not  pass  away 
From  sparkling  frost,  or  wreathed  snow, 
And  whisper  when  the  wild  winds  blow, 

Or  rippling  waters  play. 

Is  childhood,  then,  so  all  divine? 
Or,  Memory,  is  the  glory  thine, 

That  haloes  thus  the  past  ? 
Not  all  divine  ;  its  pangs  of  grief 
(Although,  perchance,  their  stay  be  brief) 

Are  bitter  while  they  last. 

Nor  is  the  glory  all  thine  own, 
For  on  our  earliest  joys  alone 
That  holy  light  ib  cast. 


420  POEMS  BY  ACTON   BELL 

With  such  a  ray,  no  spell  of  thine 
Can  make  our  later  pleasures  shine, 
Though  long  ago  they  passed. 


TO  COWPER 

SWEET  are  thy  strains,  Celestial  Bard ; 

And  oft,  in  childhood's  years, 
I've  read  them  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

With  floods  of  silent  tears. 

The  language  of  my  inmost  heart 

I  traced  in  every  line  ; 
My  sins,  my  sorrows,  hopes,  and  fears, 

Were  there — and  only  mine. 

All  for  myself  the  sigh  would  swell, 

The  tear  of  anguish  start ; 
I  little  knew  what  wilder  woe 

Had  filled  the  Poet's  heart. 

I  did  not  know  the  nights  of  gloom, 

The  days  of  misery : 
The  long,  long  years  of  dark  despair, 

That  crushed  and  tortured  thee. 

But  they  are  gone  ;  from  earth  at  length 

Thy  gentle  soul  is  pass'd, 
And  in  the  bosom  of  its  God 
Has  found  its  home  at  last. 

It  must  be  so,  if  God  is  love, 

And  answers  fervent  prayer  ; 
Then  surely  thou  shalt  dwell  on  high, 

And  I  may  meet  thee  there. 


TO  COWPER   .  421 

Is  He  the  source  of  every  good, 

The  spring  of  purity  ? 
Then  in  thine  hours  of  deepest  woe, 

Thy  God  was  still  with  thee. 

How  else,  when  every  hope  was  fled, 

Couldst  thou  so  fondly  cling 
To  holy  things  and  holy  men  ? 

And  how  so  sweetly  sing 

Of  things  that  God  alone  could  teach  ? 

And  whence  that  purity, 
That  hatred  of  all  sinful  ways — 

That  gentle  charity  ? 

Are  these  the  symptoms  of  a  heart 

Of  heavenly  grace  bereft — 
For  ever  banished  from  its  God, 

To  Satan's  fury  left  ? 

Yet,  should  thy  darkest  fears  be  true, 

If  Heaven  be  so  severe, 
That  such  a  soul  as  thine  is  lost, — 

Oh  !  how  shall  /  appear  ? 


THE   DOUBTEK'S  PEAYEB 

ETERNAL  Power,  of  earth  and  air  ! 

Unseen,  yet  seen  in  all  around, 
Eemote,  but  dwelling  everywhere, 

Though  silent,  heard  in  every  sound  ; 

If  e'er  thine  ear  in  mercy  bent, 

When  wretched  mortals  cried  to  Thee, 

And  if,  indeed,  Thy  Son  was  sent, 
To  save  lost  sinners  such  as  me  : 


422  POEMS  BY  ACTON   BELL 

Then  hear  me  now,  while  kneeling  here, 
I  lift  to  thee  my  heart  and  eye, 

And  all  my  soul  ascends  in  prayer, 
Oh,  give  me — give  me  Faith  !  I  cry.  - 

Without  some  glimmering  in  my  heart, 
I  could  not  raise  this  fervent  prayer ; 

But,  oh  !  a  stronger  light  impart, 
And  in  Thy  mercy  fix  it  there. 

While  Faith  is  with  me,  I  am  blest ; 

It  turns  my  darkest  night  to  day  ; 
But  while  I  clasp  it  to  my  breast, 

I  often  feel  it  slide  away. 

Then,  cold  and  dark,  my  spirit  sinks, 
To  see  my  light  of  life  depart ; 

And  every  fiend  of  Hell,  methinks, 
Enjoys  the  anguish  of  my  heart. 

What  shall  I  do,  if  all  my  love, 
My  hopes,  my  toil,  are  cast  away, 

And  if  there  be  no  God  above, 

To  hear  and  bless  me  when  I  pray  ? 

If  this  be  vain  delusion  all, 
If  death  be  an  eternal  sleep, 

And  none  can  hear  my  secret  call, 
Or  see  the  silent  tears  I  weep  I 

Oh,  help  me,  God  !     For  thou  alone 
Canst  my  distracted  soul  relieve  ; 

Forsake  it  not :  it  is  thine  own, 

Though  weak,  yet  longing  to  believe. 

Oh,  drive  these  cruel  doubts  away  ; 

And  make  me  know,  that  Thou  art  God  ! 
A  faith,  that  shines  by  night  and  day, 

Will  lighten  every  earthly  load. 


THE  DOUBTER'S  PRAYER  423 

If  I  believe  that  Jesus  died, 

And  waking,  rose  to  reign  above ; 
Then  surely  Sorrow,  Sin,  and  Pride 

Must  yield  to  Peace,  and  Hope,  and  Love 

And  all  the  blessed  words  He  said 

Will  strength  and  holy  joy  impart : 
A  shield  of  safety  o'er  my  head, 

A  spring  of  comfort  in  my  heart. 


A   WORD   TO  THE   'ELECT' 

You  may  rejoice  to  think  yourselves  secure  ; 

You  may  be  grateful  for  the  gift  divine — 

That  grace  unsought,  which  made  your  black  hearts  pure, 

And  fits  your  earth-born  souls  in  Heaven  to  shine. 

But  is  it  sweet  to  look  around,  and  view 
Thousands  excluded  from  that  happiness 
Which  they  deserved,  at  least,  as  much  as  you — 
Their  faults  not  greater,  nor  their  virtues  less  ? 

And  wherefore  should  you  love  your  God  the  more, 
Because  to  you  alone  His  smiles  are  given  ; 
Because  He  chose  to  pass  the  many  o'er, 
And  only  bring  the  favoured  few  to  Heaven  ? 

And  wherefore  should  your  hearts  more  grateful  prove, 
Because  for  ALL  the  Saviour  did  not  die  ? 
Is  yours  the  God  of  justice  and  of  love  ? 
And  are  your  bosoms  warm  with  charity  ? 

Say,  does  your  heart  expand  to  all  mankind  ? 

And,  would  you  ever  to  your  neighbour  do — 

The  weak,  the  strong,  the  enlightened,  and  the  blind — 

As  you  would  have  your  neighbour  do  to  you  ? 


424  POEMS  BY  ACTON   BELL 

And  when  you,  looking  on  your  fellow-men, 
Behold  them  doomed  to  endless  misery, 
How  can  you  talk  of  joy  and  rapture  then  ? — 
May  God  withhold  such  cruel  joy  from  me } 

That  none  deserve  eternal  bliss  I  know ; 

Unmerited  the  grace  in  mercy  given  : 

But  none  shall  sink  to  everlasting  woe, 

That  have  not  well  deserved  the  wrath  of  Heaven. 

And,  oh  !  there  lives  within  my  heart 
A  hope,  long  nursed  by  me  ; 

(And  should  its  cheering  ray  depart, 
How  dark  my  soul  would  be  !) 

That  as  in  Adam  all  have  died, 
In  Christ  shall  all  men  live  ; 

And  ever  round  His  throne  abide, 
Eternal  praise  to  give. 

That  even  the  wicked  shall  at  last 

Be  fitted  for  the  skies  ; 
And  when  their  dreadful  doom  is  past, 

To  life  and  light  arise. 

I  ask  not,  how  remote  the  day, 

Nor  what  the  sinners'  woe, 
Before  their  dross  is  purged  away ; 

Enough  for  me  to  know — 

That  when  the  cup  of  wrath  is  drained, 

The  metal  punned, 
They'll  cling  to  what  they  once  disdained, 

And  live  by  Him  that  died. 


PAST  DAYS 

Tis  strange  to  think  there  was  a  time 
When  mirth  was  not  an  empty  name, 

When  laughter  really  cheered  the  heart, 
And  frequent  smiles  unbidden  came, 

And  tears  of  grief  would  only  flow 

In  sympathy  for  others'  woe ; 

When  speech  expressed  the  inward  thought, 
And  heart  to  kindred  heart  was  bare, 

And  summer  days  were  far  too  short 
For  all  the  pleasures  crowded  there  ; 

And  silence,  solitude,  and  rest, 

Now  welcome  to  the  weary  breast — 

Were  all  unprized,  uncourted  then — 
And  all  the  joy  one  spirit  showed, 

The  other  deeply  felt  again  ; 

And  friendship  like  a  river  flowed, 

Constant  and  strong  its  silent  course, 

For  nought  withstood  its  gentle  force  : 

When  night,  the  holy  time  of  peace, 
Was  dreaded  as  the  parting  hour ; 

When  speech  and  mirth  at  once  must  cease, 
And  silence  must  resume  her  power ; 

Though  ever  free  from  pains  and  woes, 

She  only  brought  us  calm  repose. 

And  when  the  blessed  dawn  again 

Brought  daylight  to  the  blushing  skies, 

We  woke,  and  not  reluctant  then, 
To  joyless  labour  did  we  rise  ; 

But  full  of  hope,  and  glad  and  gay, 

We  welcomed  the  returning  day. 


426  POEMS  BY  ACTON   BELL 


THE   CONSOLATION 

[This  poem,  like  most  of  its  predecessors,  was  first  printed  in  the 
volume  of  poems  published  in  1846.  It  was  afterwards  included  by 
Charlotte  Bronte  in  her  Selection  from  the  Poems  of  Acton  Bell,  under 
the  title  of  '  Lines  Written  from  Home,'  with  this  note :— ] 

My  sister  Anne  had  to  taste  the  cup  of  life  as  it  is  mixed  for  the  class 

termed  '  Governesses.' 
The  following  are  some  of  the  thoughts  that  now  and  then  solace  a 

governess : — 

THOUGH  bleak  these  woods,  and  damp  the  ground 

With  fallen  leaves  so  thickly  strown, 
And  cold  the  wind  that  wanders  round 

With  wild  and  melancholy  moan ; 

There  is  a  friendly  roof,  I  know, 

Might  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast ; 

There  is  a  fire,  whose  ruddy  glow 

Will  cheer  me  for  my  wanderings  past. 

And  so,  though  still,  where'er  I  go, 

Cold  stranger-glances  meet  my  eye  ; 
Though,  when  my  spirit  sinks  in  woe, 

Unheeded  swells  the  unbidden  sigh  ; 

Though  solitude,  endured  too  long, 

Bids  youthful  joys  too  soon  decay, 
Makes  mirth  a  stranger  to  my  tongue, 

And  overclouds  my  noon  of  day  ; 

When  kindly  thoughts  that  would  have  way, 

Flow  back  discouraged  to  my  breast ; 
I  know  there  is,  though  far  away, 

A  home  where  heart  and  soul  may  rest 


THE  CONSOLATION  427 

Warm  hands  are  there,  that,  clasped  in  mine, 

The  warmer  heart  will  not  belie ; 
While  mirth,  and  truth,  and  friendship  shine 

In  smiling  lip  and  earnest  eye. 

The  ice  that  gathers  round  my  heart 

May  there  be  thawed  ;  and  sweetly,  then, 

The  joys  of  youth,  that  now  depart, 
Will  come  to  cheer  my  soul  again. 

Though  far  I  roam,  that  thought  shall  be 

My  hope,  my  comfort,  everywhere ; 
While  such  a  home  remains  to  me, 

My  heart  shall  never  know  despair ! 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  WOOD  ON  A 
WINDY  DAY 

MY  soul  is  awakened,  my  spirit  is  soaring 
And  carried  aloft  on  the  wings  of  the  breeze ; 

For  above  and  around  me  the  wild  wind  is  roaring, 
Arousing  to  rapture  the  earth  and  the  seas. 

The  long  withered  grass  in  the  sunshine  is  glancing, 
The  bare  trees  are  tossing  their  branches  on  high  ; 

The  dead  leaves  beneath  them  are  merrily  dancing, 
The  white  clouds  are  scudding  across  the  blue  sky 

I  wish  I  could  see  how  the  ocean  is  lashing 
The  foam  of  its  billows  to  whirlwinds  of  spray ; 

I  wish  I  could  see  how  its  proud  waves  are  dashing, 
And  hear  the  wild  roar  of  their  thunder  to-day  ! 


428  POEMS  BY  ACTON  BELL 


VIEWS   OF  LIFE 

WHEN  sinks  my  heart  in  hopeless  gloom, 
And  life  can  show  no  joy  for  me  ; 

And  I  behold  a  yawning  tomb, 

Where  bowers  and  palaces  should  be ; 

In  vain  you  talk  of  morbid  dreams ; 

In  vain  you  gaily  smiling  say, 
That  what  to  me  so  dreary  seems, 

The  healthy  mind  deems  bright  and  gay. 

I  too  have  smiled,  and  thought  like  you, 
But  madly  smiled,  and  falsely  deemed  : 

Truth  led  me  to  the  present  view, — 
I'm  waking  now — 'twas  then  I  dreamed. 

I  lately  saw  a  sunset  sky, 

And  stood  enraptured  to  behold 

Its  varied  hues  of  glorious  dye : 
First,  fleecy  clouds  of  shining  gold  ; 

These  blushing  took  a  rosy  hue ; 

Beneath  them  shone  a  flood  of  green ; 
Nor  less  divine,  the  glorious  blue 

That  smiled  above  them  and  between. 

I  cannot  name  each  lovely  shade ; 

I  cannot  say  how  bright  they  shone ; 
But  one  by  one,  I  saw  them  fade  ; 

And  what  remained  when  they  were  gone  ? 

Dull  clouds  remained,  of  sombre  hue, 

And  when  their  borrowed  charm  was  o'er, 

The  azure  sky  had  faded  too, 

That  smiled  so  softly  bright  before. 


VIEWS  OF  LIFE  429 

So,  gilded  by  the  glow  of  youth, 

Our  varied  life  looks  fair  and  gay ; 
And  so  remains  the  naked  truth, 

When  that  false  light  is  past  away. 

Why  blame  ye,  then,  my  keener  sight, 

That  clearly  sees  a  world  of  woes 
Through  all  the  haze  of  golden  light 

That  flattering  Falsehood  round  it  throws  ? 

When  the  young  mother  smiles  above 

The  first-born  darling  of  her  heart, 
Her  bosom  glows  with  earnest  love, 

While  tears  of  silent  transport  start. 

Fond  dreamer  !  little  does  she  know 

The  anxious  toil,  the  suffering, 
The  blasted  hopes,  the  burning  woe, 

The  object  of  her  joy  will  bring. 

Her  blinded  eyes  behold  not  now 

What,  soon  or  late,  must  be  his  doom  ; 
The  anguish  that  will  cloud  his  brow, 

The  bed  of  death,  the  dreary  tomb. 

» 
As  little  know  the  youthful  pair, 

In  mutual  love  supremely  blest, 
What  weariness,  and  cold  despair, 

Ere  long,  will  seize  the  aching  breast. 

And  even  should  Love  and  Faith  remain, 
(The  greatest  blessings  life  can  show,) 

Amid  adversity  and  pain, 

To  shine  throughout  with  cheering  glow ; 

They  do  not  see  how  cruel  Death 

Comes  on,  their  loving  hearts  to  part : 

One  feels  not  now  the  gasping  breath, 
The  rending  of  the  earth-bound  heart, — 


430  POEMS  BY  ACTON  BELL 

The  soul's  and  body's  agony, 
Ere  she  may  sink  to  her  repose. 

The  sad  survivor  cannot  see 

The  grave  above  his  darling  close  ; 

Nor  how,  despairing  and  alone, 
He  then  must  wear  his  life  away ; 

And  linger,  feebly  toiling  on, 
And  f ainting,  sink  into  deca;, . 

*  *  * 

Oh,  Youth  may  listen  patiently, 
While  sad  Experience  tells  her  tale, 

But  doubt  sits  smiling  in  his  eye, 
For  ardent  Hope  will  still  prevail. 

He  hears  how  feeble  Pleasure  dies, 

By  guilt  destroyed,  and  pain  and  woe ; 

He  turns  to  Hope — and  she  replies, 
'  Believe  it  not — it  is  not  so  ! ' 

'  Oh,  heed  her  not !  '  Experience  says  ; 

'  For  thus  she  whispered  once  to  me  ; 
She  told  me,  in  my  youthful  days, 

How  glorious  manhood's  prime  would  be. 

'  When,  in  the  time  of  early  Spring, 
Too  chill  the  winds  that  o'er  me  pass'd, 

She  said,  each  coming  day  would  bring 
A  fairer  heaven,  a  gentler  blast. 

'  And  when  the  sun  too  seldom  beamed, 
The  sky,  o'ercast,  too  darkly  frowned, 

The  soaking  rain  too  constant  streamed, 
And  mists  too  dreary  gathered  round  ; 

'  She  told  me,  Summer's  glorious  ray 
Would  chase  those  vapours  all  away, 
And  scatter  glories  round  ; 


VIEWS  OP  LIFE  431 

With  sweetest  music  fill  the  trees, 
Load  with  rich  scent  the  gentle  breeze, 
And  strew  with  flowers  the  ground. 

1  But  when,  beneath  that  scorching  ray, 
I  languished,  weary  through  the  day, 

While  birds  refused  to  sing, 
Verdure  decayed  from  field  and  tree, 
And  panting  Nature  mourned  with  me 

The  freshness  of  the  Spring, — 

1 "  Wait  but  a  little  while,"  she  said, 
"  Till  Summer's  burning  days  are  fled ; 

And  Autumn  shall  restore, 
With  golden  riches  of  her  own, 
And  Summer's  glories  mellowed  down, 

The  freshness  you  deplore." 

1  And  long  I  waited,  but  in  vain  : 
That  freshness  never  came  again, 

Though  Summer  passed  away, 
Though  Autumn's  mists  hung  cold  and  chill, 
And  drooping  nature  languished  still, 

And  sank  into  decay. 

'  '  Till  wintry  blasts  foreboding  blew 
Through  leafless  trees — and  then  I  knew 

That  Hope  was  all  a  dream. 
But  thus,  fond  youth,  she  cheated  me ; 
And  she  will  prove  as  false  to  thee, 
Though  sweet  her  words  may  seem.' 

Stern  prophet !     Cease  thy  bodings  dire — 
Thou  canst  not  quench  the  ardent  fire 

That  warms  the  breast  of  youth. 
Oh,  let  it  cheer  him  while  it  may, 
And  gently,  gently  die  away — 

Chilled  by  the  damps  of  truth ! 


432  POEMS  BY  ACTON  BELL 

Tell  him,  that  earth  is  not  our  rest ; 
Its  joys  are  empty — frail  at  best; 

And  point  beyond  the  sky. 
But  gleams  of  light  may  reach  us  here  ; 
And  hope  the  roughest  path  can  cheer ; 

Then  do  not  bid  it  fly ! 

Though  hope  may  promise  joys,  that  still 
Unkindly  time  will  ne'er  fulfil ; 

Or,  if  they  come  at  all, 
We  never  find  them  unalloyed, — 
Hurtful  perchance,  or  soon  destroyed, 

They  vanish  or  they  pall ; 

Yet  hope  itself  a  brightness  throws 
O'er  all  our  labours  and  our  woes  ; 

While  dark  foreboding  Care 
A  thousand  ills  will  oft  portend, 
That  Providence  may  ne'er  intend 

The  trembling  heart  to  bear. 

Or  if  they  come,  it  oft  appears, 
Our  woes  are  lighter  than  our  fears, 

And  far  more  bravely  borne. 
Then  let  us  not  enhance  our  doom  ; 
But  e'en  in  midnight's  blackest  gloom 

Expect  the  rising  morn. 

Because  the  road  is  rough  and  long, 
Shall  we  despise  the  skylark's  song, 

That  cheers  the  wanderer's  way  ? 
Or  trample  down,  with  reckless  feet, 
The  smiling  flowerets,  bright  and  sweet, 

Because  they  soon  decay  ? 

Pass  pleasant  scenes  unnoticed  by, 
Because  the  next  is  bleak  and  drear  ; 

Or  not  enjoy  a  smiling  sky, 

Because  a  tempest  may  be  near  ? 


VIEWS  OF  LIFE  433 

No  !  while  we  journey  on  our  way, 

We'll  smile  on  every  lovely  thing ; 
And  ever,  as  they  pass  away, 

To  memory  and  hope  we'll  cling. 

And  though  that  awful  river  flows 

Before  us,  when  the  journey's  past, 
Perchance  of  all  the  pilgrim's  woes 

Most  dreadful — shrink  not — 'tis  the  last ! 

Though  icy  cold,  and  dark,  and  deep ; 

Beyond  it  smiles  that  blessed  shore, 
Where  none  shall  suffer,  none  shall  weep, 

And  bliss  shall  reign  for  evermore  ! 


APPEAL 

OH,  I  am  very  weary, 

Though  tears  no  longer  flow  ; 
My  eyes  are  tired  of  weeping, 

My  heart  is  sick  of  woe  ; 

My  life  is  very  lonely, 

My  days  pass  heavily, 
I'm  weary  of  repining ; 

Wilt  thou  not  come  to  me  ? 

Oh,  didst  thou  know  my  longinga 
For  thee,  from  day  to  day, 

My  hopes,  so  often  blighted, 
Thou  wouldst  not  thus  delay  I 


POEMS  BY  ACTON  BELL 


THE  STUDENT'S  SEEENADE 

I  HAVE  slept  upon  my  couch, 
But  my  spirit  did  not  rest, 

For  the  labours  of  the  day 
Yet  my  weary  soul  opprest ; 

And  before  my  dreaming  eyes 
Still  the  learned  volumes  lay, 

And  I  could  not  close  their  leaves, 
And  I  could  not  turn  away. 

But  I  oped  my  eyes  at  last, 
And  I  heard  a  muffled  sound  ; 

'Twas  the  night-breeze,  come  to  say 
That  the  snow  was  on  the  ground. 

Then  I  knew  that  there  was  rest 
On  the  mountain's  bosom  free  ; 

So  I  left  my  fevered  couch, 
And  I  flew  to  waken  thee  ! 

I  have  flown  to  waken  thee — 
For,  if  thou  wilt  not  arise, 

Then  my  soul  can  drink  no  peace 
From  these  holy  moonlight  skies. 

And  this  waste  of  virgin  snow 
To  my  sight  will  not  be  fair, 

Unless  thou  wilt  smiling  come, 
Love,  to  wander  with  me  there. 

Then,  awake  !  Maria,  wake  ! 

For,  if  thou  couldst  only  know 
How  the  quiet  moonlight  sleeps 

On  this  wilderness  of  snow, 


THE   STUDENT'S  SEEENADE  435 

And  the  groves  of  ancient  trees, 

In  their  snowy  garb  arrayed, 
Till  they  stretch  into  the  gloom 

Of  the  distant  valley's  shade ; 

I  know  thou  wouldst  rejoice 

To  inhale  this  bracing  air ; 
Thou  wouldst  break  thy  sweetest  sleep 

To  behold  a  scene  so  fair. 

O'er  these  wintry  wilds,  alone, 

Thou  wouldst  joy  to  wander  free  ; 
And  it  will  not  please  thee  less, 

Though  that  bliss  be  shared  with  me. 


THE  CAPTIVE  DOVE 

POOB  restless  dove,  I  pity  thee ; 

And  when  I  hear  thy  plaintive  moan, 
I  mourn  for  thy  captivity, 

And  in  thy  woes  forget  mine  own. 

To  see  thee  stand  prepared  to  fly, 
And  flap  those  useless  wings  of  thine, 

And  gaze  into  the  distant  sky, 

Would  melt  a  harder  heart  than  mine, 

In  vain — in  vain  !     Thou  canst  not  rise : 
Thy  prison  roof  confines  thee  there ; 

Its  slender  wires  delude  thine  eyes, 
And  quench  thy  longings  with  despair. 

Oh,  thou  wert  made  to  wander  free 
In  sunny  mead  and  shady  grove, 

And  far  beyond  the  rolling  sea, 
In  distant  climes,  at  will  to  rove ! 


436  POEMS  BY   ACTON   BELL 

Yet,  hadst  thou  but  one  gentle  mate 
Thy  little  drooping  heart  to  cheer, 

And  share  with  thee  thy  captive  state, 
Thou  couldst  be  happy  even  there. 

Yes,  even  there,  if,  listening  by, 
One  faithful  dear  companion  stood, 

While  gazing  on  her  full  bright  eye, 
Thou  might'st  forget  thy  native  wood. 

But  thou,  poor  solitary  dove, 

Must  make,  unheard,  thy  joyless  moan  ; 

The  heart  that  Nature  formed  to  love 
Must  pine,  neglected,  and  alone. 


SELF-CONGRATULATION 

'  ELLEN,  you  were  thoughtless  once 

Of  beauty  or  of  grace, 
Simple  and  homely  in  attire, 

Careless  of  form  and  face. 
Then  whence  this  change  ?  and  wherefore  now 

So  often  smooth  your  hair  ? 
And  wherefore  deck  your  youthful  form 

With  such  unwearied  care  ? 

'  Tell  us,  and  cease  to  tire  our  ears 

With  that  familiar  strain  ; 
Why  will  you  play  those  simple  tunes 

So  often  o'er  again  ? ' 
1  Indeed,  clear  friends,  I  can  but  say 

That  childhood's  thoughts  are  gone  ; 
Each  year  its  own  new  feelings  brings, 

And  years  move  swiftly  on  ; 


SELF-CONGRATULATION  437 

'  And  for  these  little  simple  airs — 

I  love  to  play  them  o'er 
So  much — I  dare  not  promise,  now, 

To  play  them  never  more.' 
I  answered — and  it  was  enough  ; 

They  turned  them  to  depart ; 
They  could  not  read  my  secret  thoughts, 

Nor  see  my  throbbing  heart. 

I've  noticed  many  a  youthful  form, 

Upon  whose  changeful  face 
The  inmost  workings  of  the  soul 

The  gazer  well  might  trace  ; 
The  speaking  eye,  the  changing  lip, 

The  ready  blushing  cheek, 
The  smiling,  or  beclouded  brow, 

Their  different  feelings  speak. 


But,  thank  God  !  you  might  gaze  on  mine 

For  hours,  and  never  know 
The  secret  changes  of  my  soul 

From  joy  to  keenest  woe. 
Last  night,  as  we  sat  round  the  fire, 

Conversing  merrily, 
We  heard,  without,  approaching  steps 

Of  one  well  known  to  me  ! 


There  was  no  trembling  in  my  voice, 

No  blush  upon  my  cheek, 
No  lustrous  sparkle  in  my  eyes, 

Of  hope,  or  joy,  to  speak  ; 
But,  oh  !  my  spirit  burned  within, 

My  heart  beat  full  and  fast ! 
He  came  not  nigh — he  went  away — 

And  then  my  joy  was  past. 


438  POEMS  BY  ACTON   BELL 

And  yet  my  comrades  marked  it  not : 

My  voice  was  still  the  same  ; 
They  saw  me  smile,  and  o'er  my  face 

No  signs  of  sadness  came. 
They  little  knew  my  hidden  thoughts  ; 

And  they  will  never  know 
The  aching  anguish  of  my  heart, 

The  bitter  burning  woe  ! 


FLUCTUATIONS 

WHAT  though  the  Sun  had  left  my  aky ; 

To  save  me  from  despair 
The  blessed  moon  arose  on  high, 

And  shone  serenely  there. 

I  watched  her,  with  a  tearful  gaze, 

Eise  slowly  o'er  the  hill, 
While  through  the  dim  horizon's  haze 

Her  light  gleamed  faint  and  chill. 

I  thought  such  wan  and  lifeless  beams 

Could  ne'er  my  heart  repay 
For  the  bright  sun's  most  transient  gleams 

That  cheered  me  through  the  day : 

But,  as  above  that  mist's  control 

She  rose,  and  brighter  shone, 
I  felt  her  light  upon  my  soul ; 

But  now — that  light  is  gone  ! 

Thick  vapours  snatched  her  from  my  sight, 

And  I  was  darkling  left, 
All  in  the  cold  and  gloomy  night, 

Of  light  and  hope  bereft : 


FLUCTUATIONS  439 

Until,  meth ought,  a  little  star 

Shone  forth  with  trembling  ray, 
To  cheer  me  with  its  light  afar — 

But  that,  too,  passed  away. 

Anon,  an  earthly  meteor  blazed 

The  gloomy  darkness  through ; 
I  smiled,  yet  trembled  while  I  gazed — 

But  that  soon  vanished  too ! 

And  darker,  drearier  fell  the  night 

Upon  my  spirit  then  ; — 
But  what  is  that  faint  struggling  light  ? 

Is  it  the  Moon  again  ? 

Kind  Heaven  !  increase  that  silvery  gleam, 

And  bid  these  clouds  depart, 
And  let  her  soft  celestial  beam 

Eestore  my  fainting  heart ! 


SELECTIONS 

FROM    THE    LITERARY    REMAINS 

OF 

ELLIS   AND   ACTON   BELL 


BY 

CUBREB    BELL 


SELECTIONS 


FROM 


POEMS   BY   ELLIS    BELL 


IT  would  not  have  been  difficult  to  compile  a  volume  out  of 
the  papers  left  by  my  sisters,  had  I,  in  making  the  selection, 
dismissed  from  my  consideration  the  scruples  and  the  wishes 
of  those  whose  written  thoughts  these  papers  held.  But 
this  was  impossible  :  an  influence,  stronger  than  could  be 
exercised  by  any  motive  of  expediency,  necessarily  regulated 
the  selection.  I  have,  then,  culled  from  the  mass  only  a 
little  poem  here  and  there.  The  whole  makes  but  a  tiny 
nosegay,  and  the  colour  and  perfume  of  the  flowers  are  not 
such  as  fit  them  for  festal  uses. 

It  has  been  already  said  that  my  sisters  wrote  much  in 
childhood  and  girlhood.  Usually,  it  seems  a  sort  of  injustice 
to  expose  in  print  the  crude  thoughts  of  the  unripe  mind, 
the  rude  efforts  of  the  unpractised  hand ;  yet  I  venture  to 
give  three  little  poems  of  my  sister  Emily's,  written  in  her 
sixteenth  year,  because  they  illustrate  a  point  in  her 
character. 

At  that  period  she  was  sent  to  school.  Her  previous  life, 
with  the  exception  of  a  single  half-year,  had  been  passed  in 
the  absolute  retirement  of  a  village  parsonage,  amongst  the 
hills  bordering  Yorkshire  and  Lancashire.  The  scenery  of 

1  First  published  in  the  1850  edition  of  '  "  Wuthering  Heights"  and 
"Agnes  Grey."  ' 


444  SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  LITERARY  REMAINS 

these  hills  is  not  grand — it  is  not  romantic ;  it  is  scarcely 
striking.  Long  low  moors,  dark  with  heath,  shut  in  little 
valleys,  where  a  stream  waters,  here  and  there,  a  fringe  of 
stunted  copse.  Mills  and  scattered  cottages  chase  romance 
from  these  valleys  ;  it  is  only  higher  up,  deep  in  amongst  the 
ridges  of  the  moors,  that  Imagination  can  find  rest  for  the 
sole  of  her  foot :  and  even  if  she  finds  it  there,  she  must  be  a 
solitude  -loving  raven — no  gentle  dove.  If  she  demand 
beauty  to  inspire  her,  she  must  bring  it  inborn  :  these  moors 
ai'e  too  stern  to  yield  any  product  so  delicate.  The  eye  of 
the  gazer  must  itself  brim  with  a  '  purple  light,'  intense 
enough  to  perpetuate  the  brief  flower-flush  of  August  on  the 
heather,  or  the  rare  sunset-smile  of  June  ;  out  of  his  heart 
must  well  the  freshness,  that  in  latter  spring  and  early 
summer  brightens  the  bracken,  nurtures  the  moss,  and 
cherishes  the  starry  flowers  that  spangle  for  a  few  weeks  the 
pasture  of  the  moor-sheep.  Unless  that  light  and  freshness 
are  innate  and  self-sustained,  the  drear  prospect  of  a 
Yorkshire  moor  will  be  found  as  barren  of  poetic  as  of 
agricultural  interest :  where  the  love  of  wild  nature  is  strong, 
the  locality  will  perhaps  be  clung  to  with  the  more 
passionate  constancy,  because  from  the  hill-lover's  self  comes 
half  its  charm. 

My  sister  Emily  loved  the  moors.  Flowers  brighter  than 
the  rose  bloomed  in  the  blackest  of  the  heath  for  her  ;  out  of 
a  sullen  hollow  in  a  livid  hill-side  her  mind  could  make  an 
Eden.  She  found  in  the  bleak  solitude  many  and  dear 
delights  ;  and  not  the  least  and  best  loved  was — liberty. 

Liberty  was  the  breath  of  Emily's  nostrils;  without  it, 
she  perished.  The  change  from  her  own  home  to  a  school, 
and  from  her  own  very  noiseless,  very  secluded,  but 
unrestricted  and  inartificial  mode  of  life,  to  one  of  disciplined 
routine  (though  under  the  kindliest  auspices)  was  what  she 
failed  in  enduring.  Her  nature  proved  here  too  strong  for  her 
fortitude.  Every  morning  when  she  woke,  the  vision  of 
home  and  the  moors  rushed  on  her,  and  darkened  and 
saddened  the  day  that  lay  before  her.  Nobody  knew  what 


OF  ELLIS  AND  ACTON   BELL  445 

ailed  her  but  me — I  knew  only  too  well.  In  this  struggle 
her  health  was  quickly  broken :  her  white  face,  attenuated 
form,  and  failing  strength  threatened  rapid  decline.  I  felt  in 
my  heart  she  would  die,  if  she  did  not  go  home,  and  with 
this  conviction  obtained  her  recall.  She  had  only  been 
three  months  at  school ;  and  it  was  some  years  before  the 
experiment  of  sending  her  from  home  was  again  ventured  on. 
After  the  age  of  twenty,  having  meantime  studied  alone  with 
diligence  and  perseverance,  she  went  with  me  to  an  establish- 
ment on  the  Continent :  the  same  suffering  and  conflict 
ensued,  heightened  by  the  strong  recoil  of  her  upright, 
heretic  and  English  spirit  from  the  gentle  Jesuitry  of  the 
foreign  and  Eomish  system.  Once  more  she  seemed  sinking, 
but  this  time  she  rallied  through  the  mere  force  of  resolution  : 
with  inward  remorse  and  shame  she  looked  back  on  her 
former  failure,  and  resolved  to  conquer  in  this  second  ordeal. 
She  did  conquer :  but  the  victory  cost  her  dear.  She  was 
never  happy  till  she  carried  her  hard-won  knowledge  back  to 
the  remote  English  village,  the  old  parsonage-house,  and 
desolate  Yorkshire  hills.  A  very  few  years  more,  and  she 
looked  her  last  on  those  hills,  and  breathed  her  last  in  that 
house,  and  under  the  aisle  of  that  obscure  village  church 
found  her  last  lowly  resting-place.  Merciful  was  the  decree 
that  spared  her  when  she  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land, 
and  guarded  her  dying  bed  with  kindred  love  and  congenial 
constancy. 

The  following  pieces  were  composed  at  twilight,  in  the 
schoolroom,  when  the  leisure  of  the  evening  play-hour 
brought  back  in  full  tide  the  thoughts  of  home. 


446  SELECTIONS  FBOM  POEMS 


A  LITTLE  while,  a  little  while, 

The  weary  task  is  put  away, 
And  I  can  sing  and  I  can  smile, 

Alike,  while  I  have  holiday. 

Where  wilt  them  go,  my  harassed  heart — 
What  thought,  what  scene  invites  thee  now  ? 

What  spot,  or  near  or  far  apart, 
Has  rest  for  thee,  my  weary  brow  ? 

There  is  a  spot,  mid  barren  hills, 

Where  winter  howls,  and  driving  rain  ; 

But,  if  the  dreary  tempest  chills, 
There  is  a  light  that  warms  again. 

The  house  is  old,  the  trees  are  bare, 
Moonless  above  bends  twilight's  dome  ; 

But  what  on  earth  is  half  so  dear — 
So  longed  for — as  the  hearth  of  home. 

The  mute  bird  sitting  on  the  stone, 

The  dank  moss  dripping  from  the  wall, 

The  thorn-trees  gaunt,  the  walks  o'ergown, 
I  love  them — how  I  love  them  all ! 

Still,  as  I  mused,  the  naked  room, 

The  alien  firelight  died  away  ; 
And  from  the  midst  of  cheerless  gloom, 

I  passed  to  bright,  unclouded  day. 

A  little  and  a  lone  green  lane, 

That  opened  on  a  common  wide ; 
A  distant,  dreamy,  dim  blue  chain 
Of  mountains  circling  every  side  : 


BY  ELLIS  BELL  447 

A  heaven  so  clear,  an  earth  so  calm, 
So  sweet,  so  soft,  so  hushed  an  air ; 

And,  deepening  still  the  dream-like  charm, 
Wild  moor-sheep  feeding  everywhere : 

That  was  the  scene,  I  knew  it  well ; 

I  knew  the  turfy  pathway's  sweep, 
That,  winding  o'er  each  billowy  swell, 

Marked  out  the  tracks  of  wandering  sheep. 

Could  I  have  lingered  but  an  hour, 

It  well  had  paid  a  week  of  toil ; 
But  Truth  has  banished  Fancy's  power : 

Restraint  and  heavy  task  recoil. 

Even  as  I  stood  with  raptured  eye, 
Absorbed  in  bliss  so  deep  and  dear, 

My  hour  of  rest  had  fleeted  by, 
And  back  came  labour,  bondage,  care. 


II 
THE  BLUEBELL 

THE  Bluebell  is  the  sweetest  flower 

That  waves  in  summer  air : 
Its  blossoms  have  the  mightiest  power 

To  soothe  my  spirit's  care. 

There  is  a  spell  in  purple  heath 

Too  wildly,  sadly  dear ; 
The  violet  has  a  fragrant  breath, 

But  fragrance  will  not  cheer. 

The  trees  are  bare,  the  sun  is  cold, 

And  seldom,  seldom  seen  ; 
The  heavens  have  lost  their  zone  of  gold, 

And  earth  her  robe  of  green. 


448  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

And  ice  upon  the  glancing  stream 
Has  cast  its  sombre  shade ; 

And  distant  hills  and  valleys  seem 
In  frozen  mist  arrayed. 

The  Bluebell  cannot  charm  me  now, 
The  heath  has  lost  its  bloom  ; 

The  violets  in  the  glen  below, 
They  yield  no  sweet  perfume. 

But,  though  I  mourn  the  sweet  Bluebell, 

'Tis  better  far  away  ; 
I  know  how  fast  my  tears  would  swell 

To  see  it  smile  to-day. 

For,  oh !  when  chill  the  sunbeams  fall 

Adown  that  dreary  sky, 
And  gild  yon  dank  and  darkened  wall 

With  transient  brilliancy ; 

How  do  I  weep,  how  do  I  pine 
For  the  time  of  flowers  to  come, 

And  turn  me  from  that  fading  shine, 
To  mourn  the  fields  of  home  ! 


Ill 

LOUD  without  the  wind  was  roaring 

Through  th'  autumnal  sky ; 
Drenching  wet,  the  cold  rain  pouring, 

Spoke  of  winter  nigh. 

All  too  like  that  dreary  eve, 
Did  my  exiled  spirit  grieve. 
Grieved  at  first,  but  grieved  not  long — 

Sweet — how  softly  sweet ! — it  came, 
Wild  words  of  an  ancient  song, 

Undefined,  without  a  name. 


BY  ELLIS  BELL  449 

'  It  was  spring,  and  the  skylark  was  singing  :  ' 

Those  words  they  awakened  a  spell ; 
They  unlocked  a  deep  fountain,  whose  springing, 

Nor  absence,  nor  distance  can  quell. 

In  the  gloom  of  a  cloudy  November 

They  uttered  the  music  of  May  ; 
They  kindled  the  perishing  ember 

Into  fervour  that  could  not  decay. 

Awaken,  o'er  all  my  dear  moorland, 

West  wind,  in  thy  glory  and  pride  ! 
Oh  !  call  me  from  valley  and  lowland, 

To  walk  by  the  hill-torrent's  side  ! 

It  is  swelled  with  the  first  snowy  weather ; 

The  rocks  they  are  icy  and  hoar, 
And  sullenly  waves  the  long  heather, 

And  the  fern-leaves  are  sunny  no  more. 

There  are  no  yellow  stars  on  the  mountain  ; 

The  bluebells  have  long  died  away 
From  the  brink  of  the  moss-bedded  fountain — 

From  the  side  of  the  wintry  brae. 

But  lovelier  than  corn-fields  all  waving 

In  emerald,  and  vermeil,  and  gold, 
Are  the  heights  where  the  north  wind  is  raving, 

And  the  crags  where  I  wandered  of  old. 

It  was  morning  :  the  bright  sun  was  beaming  ; 

How  sweetly  it  brought  back  to  me 
The  time  when  nor  labour  nor  dreaming 

Broke  the  sleep  of  the  happy  and  free  ! 

But  blithely  we  rose  as  the  dawn-heaven 

Was  melting  to  amber  and  blue, 
And  swift  were  the  wings  to  our  feet  given, 

As  we  traversed  the  meadows  of  dew. 


450  SELECTIONS  FKOM  POEMS 

For  the  moors  !     For  the  moors,  where  the  short  grass 

Like  velvet  beneath  us  should  lie  ! 
For  the  moors  !     For  the  moors,  where  each  high  pass 

Rose  sunny  against  the  clear  sky  ! 

For  the  moors,  where  the  linnet  was  trilling 

Its  song  on  the  old  granite  stone  ; 
Where  the  lark,  the  wild  sky-lark,  was  filling 

Every  breast  with  delight  like  its  own  ! 

What  language  can  utter  the  feeling 

Which  rose,  when  in  exile  afar, 
On  the  brow  of  a  lonely  hill  kneeling, 

I  saw  the  brown  heath  growing  there  ? 

It  was  scattered  and  stunted,  and  told  me 

That  soon  even  that  would  be  gone  : 
It  whispered,  '  The  grim  walls  enfold  me, 

I  have  bloomed  in  my  last  summer's  sun.' 

But  not  the  loved  music,  whose  waking 
Makes  the  soul  of  the  Swiss  die  away, 

Has  a  spell  more  adored  and  heart-breaking 
Than,  for  me,  in  that  blighted  heath  lay. 

The  spirit  which  bent  'neath  its  power, 
How  it  longed — how  it  burned  to  be  free ! 

If  I  could  have  wept  in  that  hour, 
Those  tears  had  been  heaven  to  me. 

Well — well ;  the  sad  minutes  are  moving, 
Though  loaded  with  trouble  and  pain  ; 

And  some  time  the  loved  and  the  loving 
Shall  meet  on  the  mountains  again ! 


BY  ELLIS  BELL  451 

The  following  little  piece  has  no  title ;  but  in  it  the 
Genius  of  a  solitary  region  seems  to  address  his  wandering 
and  wayward  votary,  and  to  recall  within  his  influence  the 
proud  mind  which  rebelled  at  times  even  against  what  it 
most  loved. 

SHALL  earth  no  more  inspire  thee, 

Thou  lonely  dreamer  now  ? 
Since  passion  may  not  fire  thee,  ;.\ 

Shall  nature  cease  to  bow  ? 

Thy  mind  is  ever  moving, 

In  regions  dark  to  thee ; 
Becall  its  useless  roving, 

Come  back,  and  dwell  with  me. 

I  know  my  mountain  breezes 
Enchant  and  soothe  thee  still ; 

I  know  my  sunshine  pleases, 
Despite  thy  wayward  will. 

When  day  with  evening  blending, 

Sinks  from  the  summer  sky, 
I've  seen  thy  spirit  bending 

In  fond  idolatry. 

I've  watched  thee  every  hour ; 

I  know  thy  mighty  sway  : 
I  know  my  magic  power 

To  drive  thy  griefs  away. 

Few  hearts  to  mortals  given, 

On  earth  so  wildly  pine  ; 
Yet  few  would  ask  a  heaven 

More  like  this  earth  than  thine. 

Then  let  my  winds  caress  thee ; 

Thy  comrade  let  me  be  : 
Since  nought  beside  can  bless  thee, 

Return— and  dwell  with  me. 


452  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

Here  again  is  the  same  mind  in  converse  with  a  like 
abstraction.  '  The  Night- Wind,1  breathing  through  an  open 
window,  has  visited  an  ear  which  discerned  language  in  its 
whispers. 

THE  NIGHT-WIND 

IN  summer's  mellow  midnight, 
A  cloudless  moon  shone  through 

Our  open  parlour  window, 
And  rose-trees  wet  with  dew. 

I  sat  in  silent  musing ; 

The  soft  wind  waved  my  hair ; 
It  told  me  heaven  was  glorious, 

And  sleeping  earth  was  fair. 

I  needed  not  its  breathing 

To  bring  such  thoughts  to  me ; 

But  still  it  whispered  lowly, 
How  dark  the  woods  will  be ! 

'  The  thick  leaves  in  my  murmur 

Are  rustling  like  a  dream, 
And  all  their  myriad  voices 

Instinct  with  spirit  seem.' 

I  said,  '  Go,  gentle  singer, 

Thy  wooing  voice  is  kind  : 
But  do  not  think  its  music 

Has  power  to  reach  my  mind. 

'  Play  with  the  scented  flower, 
The  young  tree's  supple  bough, 

And  leave  my  human  feelings 
In  their  own  course  to  flow.' 

The  wanderer  would  not  heed  me  ; 

Its  kiss  grew  warmer  still. 
'  Oh,  come  !  '  it  sighed  so  sweetly  ; 

'  I'll  win  thee  'gainst  thy  will. 


BY  ELLIS  BELL  453 

'  Were  we  not  friends  from  childhood  ? 

Have  I  not  loved  thee  long  ? 
As  long  as  thou,  the  solemn  night, 

Whose  silence  wakes  my  song. 

'  And  when  thy  heart  is  resting 

Beneath  the  church-aisle  stone, 
I  shall  have  time  for  mourning, 

And  thou  for  being  alone.' 


In  these  stanzas  a  louder  gale  has  roused  the  sleeper  on 
her  pillow :  the  wakened  soul  struggles  to  blend  with  the 
storm  by  which  it  is  swayed  : — 

'  AY — there  it  is !  it  wakes  to-night 

Deep  feelings  I  thought  dead ; 
Strong  in  the  blast — quick  gathering  light — 

The  heart's  flame  kindles  red. 

'  Now  I  can  tell  by  thine  altered  cheek, 

And  by  thine  eyes'  full  gaze, 
And  by  the  words  thou  scarce  dost  speak, 

How  wildly  fancy  plays. 

'  Yes — I  could  swear  that  glorious  wind 

Has  swept  the  world  aside, 
Has  dashed  its  memory  from  thy  mind 

Like  foam-bells  from  the  tide : 

'  And  thou  art  now  a  spirit  pouring 

Thy  presence  into  all : 
The  thunder  of  the  tempest's  roaring, 

The  whisper  of  its  fall : 

'  An  universal  influence, 

From  thine  own  influence  free ; 
A  principle  of  life — intense — 

Lost  to  mortality. 


454  SELECTIONS  PROM  POEMS 

1  Thus  truly,  when  that  breast  is  cold, 

Thy  prisoned  soul  shall  rise  ; 
The  dungeon  mingle  with  the  mould — 

The  captive  with  the  skies. 
Nature's  deep  being,  thine  shall  hold, 
Her  spirit  all  thy  spirit  fold, 

Her  breath  absorb  thy  sighs. 
Mortal !  though  soon  life's  tale  is  told  ; 

Who  once  lives,  never  dies  ! ' 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 

LOVE  is  like  the  wild  rose-briar  ; 

Friendship  like  the  holly-tree. 
The  holly  is  dark  when  the  rose-briar  blooms, 

But  which  will  bloom  most  constantly  ? 

The  wild  rose-briar  is  sweet  in  spring, 
Its  summer  blossoms  scent  the  air  ; 

Yet  wait  till  winter  comes  again, 

And  who  will  call  the  wild-briar  fair  ? 

Then,  scorn  the  silly  rose- wreath  now, 
And  deck  thee  with  the  holly's  sheen, 

That,  when  December  blights  thy  brow, 
He  still  may  leave  thy  garland  green. 


THE   ELDER'S   REBUKE 

'  LISTEN  !     When  your  hair,  like  mine, 

Takes  a  tint  of  silver  gray  ; 
When  your  eyes,  with  dimmer  shine, 

Watch  life's  bubbles  float  away  : 


BY  ELLIS  BELL  455 

When  you,  young  man,  have  borne  like  me 
The  weary  weight  of  sixty-three, 
Then  shall  penance  sore  be  paid 

For  those  hours  so  wildly  squandered ; 
And  the  words  that  now  fall  dead 

On  your  ear,  be  deeply  pondered — 
Pondered  and  approved  at  last : 
But  their  virtue  will  be  past ! 

1  Glorious  is  the  prize  of  Duty, 

Though  she  be  a  "  serious  power  " ; 
Treacherous  all  the  lures  of  Beauty, 

Thorny  bud  and  poisonous  flower  I 

'  Mirth  is  but  a  mad  beguiling 

Of  the  golden -gifted  time ; 
Love — a  demon-meteor,  wiling 

Heedless  feet  to  gulfs  of  crime. 

'  Those  who  follow  earthly  pleasure, 

Heavenly  knowledge  will  not  lead  ; 
Wisdom  hides  from  them  her  treasure, 

Virtue  bids  them  evil-speed  ; 

'  Vainly  may  their  hearts  repenting, 

Seek  for  aid  in  future  years ; 
Wisdom,  scorned,  knows  no  relenting ; 

Virtue  is  not  won  by  fears.' 

Thus  spake  the  ice-blooded  elder  gray ; 

The  young  man  scoffed  as  he  turned  away, 

Turned  to  the  call  of  a  sweet  lute's  measure, 

Waked  by  the  lightsome  touch  of  pleasure  : 

Had  he  ne'er  met  a  gentler  teacher, 

Woe  had  been  wrought  by  that  pitiless  preacher. 


456  SELECTIONS  FKOM   POEMS 


THE  WANDERER  FROM  THE  FOLD 

How  few,  of  all  the  hearts  that  loved, 

Are  grieving  for  thee  now  ; 
And  why  should  mine  to-night  be  moved 

With  such  a  sense  of  woe  ? 

Too  often  thus,  when  left  alone, 
Where  none  my  thoughts  can  see, 

Comes  back  a  woi'd,  a  passing  tone 
From  thy  strange  history. 

Sometimes  I  seem  to  see  thee  rise, 

A  glorious  child  again  ; 
All  virtues  beaming  from  thine  eyes 

That  ever  honoured  men  : 

Courage  and  truth,  a  generous  breast, 

Where  sinless  sunshine  lay  : 
A  being  whose  very  presence  blest 

Like  gladsome  summer-day. 

Oh,  fairly  spread  thy  early  sail, 

And  fresh,  and  pure,  and  free 
Was  the  first  impulse  of  the  gale 

Which  urged  life's  wave  for  thee  ! 

Why  did  the  pilot,  too  confiding, 

Dream  o'er  that  ocean's  foam, 
And  trust  in  Pleasure's  careless  guiding 

To  bring  his  vessel  home  ? 

For  well  he  knew  what  dangers  frowned, 

What  mists  would  gather,  dim  ; 
What  rocks,  and  shelves,  and  sands  lay  rourjcl 

Between  his  port  and  him. 


BY  ELLIS  BELL  457 

The  very  brightness  of  the  sun, 

The  splendour  of  the  main, 
The  wind  which  bore  him  wildly  on 

Should  not  have  warned  in  vain. 

An  anxious  gazer  from  the  shore — 

I  marked  the  whitening  wave, 
And  wept  above  thy  fate  the  more 

Because — I  could  not  save. 

It  recks  not  now,  when  all  is  over : 

But  yet  my  heart  will  be 
A  mourner  still,  though  friend  and  lover 

Have  both  forgotten  thee  ! 


WARNING  AND  EEPLY 

IN  the  earth — the  earth — thou  shalt  be  laid, 
A  gray  stone  standing  over  thee  ; 

Black  mould  beneath  thee  spread, 
And  black  mould  to  cover  thee. 

1  Well — there  is  rest  there, 

So  fast  come  thy  prophecy ; 
The  time  when  my  sunny  hair 

Shall  with  grass  roots  entwined  be.' 

But  cold — cold  is  that  resting-place, 

Shut  out  from  joy  and  liberty, 
And  all  who  loved  thy  living  face 

Will  shrink  from  it  shudderingly. 

'  Not  so.     Here  the  world  is  chill, 
Arid  sworn  friends  fall  from  me : 

But  there — they  will  own  me  still ; 
And  prize  my  memory.' 


458  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

Farewell,  then,  all  that  love, 
All  that  deep  sympathy. 

Sleep  on  :  Heaven  laughs  above, 
Earth  never  misses  thee. 

Turf-sod  and  tombstone  drear 
Part  human  company ; 

One  heart  breaks  only — here, 
But  that  heart  was  worthy  thee ! 


LAST   WORDS 

I  KNEW  not  'twas  so  dire  a  crime 

To  say  the  word,  '  Adieu  ' ; 
But  this  shall  be  the  only  time 

My  lips  or  heart  shall  sue. 

The  wild  hill-side,  the  winter  morn, 
The  gnarled  and  ancient  tree, 

If  in  your  breast  they  waken  scorn, 
Shall  wake  the  same  in  me. 

I  can  forget  black  eyes  and  brows, 

And  lips  of  falsest  charm, 
If  you  forget  the  sacred  vows 

Those  faithless  lips  could  form. 

If  hard  commands  can  tame  your  love, 

Or  strongest  walls  can  hold, 
I  would  not  wish  to  grieve  above 

A  thing  so  false  and  cold. 

And  there  are  bosoms  bound  to  mine 
With  links  both  tried  and  strong ; 

And  there  are  eyes  whose  lightning  shine 
Has  warmed  and  blest  me  long : 


BY  ELLIS  BELL  459 

Those  eyes  shall  make  my  only  day, 

Shall  set  my  spirit  free, 
And  chase  the  foolish  thoughts  away 

That  mourn  your  memory. 


THE  LADY  TO  HER  GUITAR 

FOR  him  who  struck  thy  foreign  string, 
I  ween  this  heart  has  ceased  to  care ; 

Then  why  dost  thou  such  feelings  bring 
To  my  sad  spirit — old  Guitar  ? 

It  is  as  if  the  warm  sunlight 

In  some  deep  glen  should  lingering  stay, 
When  clouds  of  storm,  or  shades  of  night, 

Have  wrapt  the  parent  orb  away. 

It  is  as  if  the  glassy  brook 

Should  image  still  its  willows  fair, 

Though  years  ago  the  woodman's  stroke 
Laid  low  in  dust  their  Dryad-hair. 

Even  so,  Guitar,  thy  magic  tone 

Hath  moved  the  tear  and  waked  the  sigh ; 
Hath  bid  the  ancient  torrent  moan, 

Although  its  very  source  is  dry. 


THE  TWO   CHILDREN 

HEAVY  hangs  the  rain -drop 
From  the  burdened  spray ; 

Heavy  broods  the  damp  mist 
On  uplands  far  away. 

Heavy  looms  the  dull  sky, 

Heavy  rolls  the  sea  ; 
And  heavy  throbs  the  young  heart 

Beneath  that  lonely  tree. 


460  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

Never  has  a  blue  streak 

Cleft  the  clouds  since  morn  ; 

Never  has  his  grim  fate 
Smiled  since  he  was  born. 

Frowning  on  the  infant, 
Shadowing  childhood's  joy, 

Guardian-angel  knows  not 
That  melancholy  boy. 

Day  is  passing  swiftly 

Its  sad  and  sombre  prime  ; 

Boyhood  sad  is  merging 
In  sadder  manhood's  time : 

All  the  flowers  are  praying 
For  sun,  before  they  close, 

And  he  prays  too — unconscious — 
That  sunless  human  rose. 

Blossom — that  the  west  wind 
Has  never  wooed  to  blow, 

Scentless  are  thy  petals, 
Thy  dew  is  cold  as  snow ! 

Soul — where  kindred  kindness, 
No  early  promise  woke ; 

Barren  is  thy  beauty, 
As  weed  upon  a  rock. 

Wither — soul  and  blossom  ! 

You  both  were  vainly  given  : 
Earth  reserves  no  blessing 

For  the  unblest  of  heaven ! 


BY  ELLIS  BELL 

Child  of  delight,  with  sun -bright  hair, 

And  sea-blue,  sea-deep  eyes ! 
Spirit  of  bliss  !     What  brings  thee  here 

Beneath  these  sullen  skies  ? 

Thou  shouldst  live  in  eternal  spring, 

Where  endless  day  is  never  dim ; 
Why,  Seraph,  has  thine  erring  wing 

Wafted  thee  down  to  weep  with  him  ? 

1  Ah !  not  from  heaven  am  I  descended, 

Nor  do  I  come  to  mingle  tears ; 
But  sweet  is  day,  though  with  shadows  blended ; 

And,  though  clouded,  sweet  are  youthful  years. 

'  I — the  image  of  light  and  gladness — 

Saw  and  pitied  that  mournful  boy, 
And  I  vowed — if  need  were — to  share  his  sadness, 

And  give  to  him  my  sunny  joy. 

1  Heavy  and  dark  the  night  is  closing ; 

Heavy  and  dark  may  its  biding  be : 
Better  for  all  from  grief  reposing, 

And  better  for  all  who  watch  like  me — 

'  Watch  in  love  by  a  fevered  pillow, 

Cooling  the  fever  with  pity's  balm, 
Safe  as  the  petrel  on  tossing  billow, 

Safe  in  mine  own  soul's  golden  calm ! 

'  Guardian  angel  he  lacks  no  longer ; 

Evil  fortune  he  need  not  fear : 
Fate  is  strong,  but  love  is  stronger ; 

And  my  love  is  truer  than  angel-care.' 


462  SELECTIONS  FKOM  POEMS 


THE  VISIONAEY 

SILENT  is  the  house :  all  are  laid  asleep : 

One  alone  looks  out  o'er  the  snow-wreaths  deep, 

Watching  every  cloud,  dreading  every  breeze 

That  whirls  the  wildering  drift,  and  bends  the  groaning  trees. 

Cheerful  is  the  hearth,  soft  the  matted  floor ; 

Not  one  shivering  gust  creeps  through  pane  or  door  ; 

The  little  lamp  burns  straight,  its  rays  shoot  strong  and  far : 

I  trim  it  well,  to  be  the  wanderer's  guiding-star. 

Frown,  my  haughty  sire !  chide,  my  angry  dame ! 
Set  your  slaves  to  spy ;  threaten  me  with  shame  : 
But  neither  sire  nor  dame,  nor  prying  serf  shall  know, 
What  angel  nightly  tracks  that  waste  of  frozen  snow. 

What  I  love  shall  come  like  visitant  of  air, 
Safe  in  secret  power  from  lurking  human  snare ; 
What  loves  me,  no  word  of  mine  shall  e'er  betray, 
Though  for  faith  unstained  my  life  must  forfeit  pay. 

Burn,  then,  little  lamp ;  glimmer  straight  and  clear — 

Hush !  a  rustling  wing  stirs,  methinks,  the  air : 

He  for  whom  I  wait,  thus  ever  comes  to  me ; 

Strange  Power !  I  trust  thy  might;  trust  thou  my  constancy. 


ENCOURAGEMENT 

I  DO  not  weep  ;  I  would  not  weep ; 

Our  mother  needs  no  tears  : 
Dry  thine  eyes,  too  ;  'tis  vain  to  keep 

This  causeless  grief  for  years. 


BY   ELLIS  BELL  463 

What  though  her  brow  be  changed  and  cold, 

Her  sweet  eyes  closed  for  ever  ? 
What  though  the  stone — the  darksome  mould 

Our  mortal  bodies  sever  ? 

What  though  her  hand  smooth  ne'er  again 

Those  silken  locks  of  thine  ? 
Nor,  through  long  hours  of  future  pain, 

Her  kind  face  o'er  thee  shine  ? 

Remember  still,  she  is  not  dead ; 

She  sees  us,  sister,  now ; 
Laid,  where  her  angel  spirit  fled, 

Mid  heath  and  frozen  snow. 

And  from  that  world  of  heavenly  light 

Will  she  not  always  bend 
To  guide  us  in  our  lifetime's  night, 

And  guard  us  to  the  end  ? 

Thou  knowest  she  will ;  and  thou  may'st  mourn 

That  we  are  left  below : 
But  not  that  she  can  ne'er  return 

To  share  our  earthly  woe. 


STANZAS 

OFTEN  rebuked,  yet  always  back  returning 
To  those  first  feelings  that  were  born  with  me, 

And  leaving  busy  chase  of  wealth  and  learning 
For  idle  dreams  of  things  which  cannot  be : 

To-day,  I  will  seek  not  the  shadowy  region ; 

Its  unsustaining  vastness  waxes  drear ; 
And  visions  rising,  legion  after  legion, 

Bring  the  unreal  world  too  strangely  near 


464  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

I'll  walk,  but  not  in  old  heroic  traces, 

And  not  in  paths  of  high  morality, 
And  not  among  the  half -distinguished  faces, 

The  clouded  forms  of  long-past  history. 

I'll  walk  where  my  own  nature  would  be  leading : 
It  vexes  me  to  choose  another  guide : 

Where  the  gray  flocks  in  ferny  glens  are  feeding ; 
Where  the  wild  wind  blows  on  the  mountain  side. 

What  have  those  lonely  mountains  worth  revealing  ? 

More  glory  and  more  grief  than  I  can  tell : 
The  earth  that  wakes  one  human  heart  to  feeling 

Can  centre  both  the  worlds  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 


The  following  are  the  last  lines  my  sister  Emily  ever  wrote 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm -troubled  sphere  : 

I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 

0  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity ! 

Life — that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I — undying  Life — have  power  in  thee ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts :  unutterably  vain  ; 

Worthless  as  withered  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity ; 

So  surely  anchored  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 


BY  ELLIS  BELL  465 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates,  and  rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be, 

And  Thou  were  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void : 

Thou — THOU  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  THOU  art  may  never  be  destroyed. 


SELECTIONS 


POEMS   BY   ACTON    BELL 


IN  looking  over  my  sister  Anne's  papers,  I  find  mournful 
evidence  that  religious  feeling  had  been  to  her  but  too  much 
like  what  it  was  to  Cowper ;  I  mean,  of  course,  in  a  far 
milder  form.  Without  rendering  her  a  prey  to  those  horrors 
that  defy  concealment,  it  subdued  her  mood  and  bearing  to 
a  perpetual  pensiveness ;  the  pillar  of  a  cloud  glided  con- 
stantly before  her  eyes ;  she  ever  waited  at  the  foot  of  & 
secret  Sinai,  listening  in  her  heart  to  the  voice  of  a  trumpet 
sounding  long  and  waxing  louder.  Some,  perhaps,  would 
rejoice  over  these  tokens  of  sincere  though  sorrowing  piety 
in  a  deceased  relative  :  I  own,  to  me  they  seem  sad,  as  if  her 
whole  innocent  life  had  been  passed  under  the  martyrdom  of 
an  unconfessed  physical  pain  :  their  effect,  indeed,  would  be 
too  distressing,  were  it  not  combated  by  the  certain  know- 
ledge that  in  her  last  moments  this  tyranny  of  a  too  tender 
oonscience  was  overcome ;  this  pomp  of  terrors  broke  up, 
and  passing  away,  left  her  dying  hour  unclouded.  Her 
belief  in  God  did  not  then  bring  to  her  dread,  as  of  a  stern 
Judge, — but  hope,  as  in  a  Creator  and  Saviour  :  and  no 
faltering  hope  was  it,  but  a  sure  and  steadfast  conviction,  on 
which,  iu  the  rude  passage  from  Time  to  Eternity,  she 
threw  the  weight  of  her  human  weakness,  and  by  which  she 
was  enabled  to  bear  what  was  to  be  borue,  patiently — • 
serenely — victoriously. 


DESPONDENCY 

I  HAVE  gone  backward  in  the  work  ; 

The  labour  has  not  sped  ; 
Drowsy  and  dark  my  spirit  lies, 

Heavy  and  dull  as  lead. 

How  can  I  rouse  my  sinking  soul 

From  such  a  lethargy  ? 
How  can  I  break  these  iron  chains 

And  set  my  spirit  free  ? 

There  have  been  times  when  I  have  mourned 

In  anguish  o'er  the  past, 
And  raised  my  suppliant  hands  on  high, 

While  tears  fell  thick  and  fast ; 

And  prayed  to  have  my  sins  forgiven, 

With  such  a  fervent  zeal, 
An  earnest  grief,  a  strong  desire, 

As  now  I  cannot  feel. 

And  I  have  felt  so  full  of  love, 

So  strong  in  spirit  then, 
As  if  my  heart  would  never  cool, 

Or  wander  back  again. 

And  yet,  alas  t  how  many  times 

My  feet  have  gone  astray  1 
How  oft  have  I  forgot  my  God  1 

How  greatly  fallen  away  1 

My  sins  increase — my  love  grows  cold, 

And  Hope  within  me  dies  : 
Even  Faith  itself  is  wavering  now  ' 

Oh,  how  shall  I  arise  ? 
ifi 


468  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

I  cannot  weep,  but  I  can  pray, 
Then  let  me  not  despair : 

Lord  Jesus,  save  me,  lest  I  die  ; 
Christ,  hear  my  humble  prayer ! 


A  PRAYER 

MY  God  (oh,  let  me  call  Thee  mine, 
Weak,  wretched  sinner  though  I  be), 

My  trembling  soul  would  fain  be  Thine  ; 
My  feeble  faith  still  clings  to  Thee. 

Not  only  for  the  Past  I  grieve, 
The  Future  fills  me  with  dismay ; 

Unless  Thou  hasten  to  relieve, 
Thy  suppliant  is  a  castaway. 

I  cannot  say  my  faith  is  strong, 
I  dare  not  hope  my  love  is  great ; 

But  strength  and  love  to  Thee  belong ; 
Oh,  do  not  leave  me  desolate  ! 

I  know  I  owe  my  all  to  Thee ; 

Oh,  take  the  heart  I  cannot  give ! 
Do  Thou  my  strength — my  Saviour  be, 

And  make  me  to  Thy  glory  live. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A  HAPPY  DAY  IN  FEBRUARY 

BLESSED  be  Thou  for  all  the  joy 

My  soul  has  felt  to-day ! 
Oh,  let  its  memory  stay  with  me, 

And  never  pass  away  ! 


BY  ACTON   BELL  469 

I  was  alone,  for  those  I  loved 

Were  far  away  from  me ; 
The  sun  shone  on  the  withered  grass, 

The  wind  blew  fresh  and  free. 

Was  it  the  smile  of  early  spring 

That  made  my  bosom  glow? 
'Twas  sweet ;  but  neither  sun  nor  wind 

Could  cheer  my  spirit  so. 

Was  it  some  feeling  of  delight, 

All  vague  and  undefined  ? 
No ;  'twas  a  rapture  deep  and  strong, 

Expanding  in  the  mind. 

Was  it  a  sanguine  view  of  life, 

And  all  its  transient  bliss, 
A  hope  of  bright  prosperity  ? 

Oh,  no !  it  was  not  this. 

It  was  a  glimpse  of  truth  divine 

Unto  my  spirit  given, 
Illumined  by  a  ray  of  light 

That  shone  direct  from  heaven. 

I  felt  there  was  a  God  on  high, 

By  whom  all  things  were  made ; 
I  saw  His  wisdom  and  His  power 

In  all  His  works  displayed. 

But  most  throughout  the  moral  world, 

I  saw  His  glory  shine ; 
I  saw  His  wisdom  infinite, 

His  mercy  all  divine. 

Deep  secrets  of  His  providence, 

In  darkness  long  concealed, 
Unto  the  vision  of  my  soul 

Were  graciously  revealed. 


470  SELECTIONS  FEOM   POEMS 

But  while  I  wondered  and  adored 
His  Majesty  divine, 

I  did  not  tremble  at  His  power : 
I  felt  that  God  was  mine. 

I  knew  that  my  Eedeemer  lived ; 

I  did  not  fear  to  die  ; 
Full  sure  that  I  should  rise  again 

To  immortality. 

I  longed  to  view  that  bliss  divine, 
Which  eye  hath  never  seen  ; 

Like  Moses,  I  would  see  His  face 
Without  the  veil  between. 


CONFIDENCE 

OPPRESSED  with  sin  and  woe, 

A  burdened  heart  I  bear, 
Opposed  by  many  a  mighty  foe ; 

But  I  will  not  despair. 

With  this  polluted  heart, 

I  dare  to  come  to  Thee, 
Holy  and  mighty  as  Thou  art, 

For  Thou  wilt  pardon  me. 

I  feel  that  I  am  weak, 

And  prone  to  every  sin  ; 
But  Thou  who  giv'st  to  those  who  seek, 

Wilt  give  me  strength  within. 

Far  as  this  earth  may  be 

From  yonder  starry  skies  ; 
Remoter  still  am  I  from  Thee : 

Yet  Thou  wilt  not  despise. 


BY  ACTON   BELL  471 

I  need  not  fear  my  foes, 

I  need  not  yield  to  care ; 
I  need  not  sink  beneath  my  woes, 

For  Thou  wilt  answer  prayer. 

In  my  Redeemer's  name, 

I  give  myself  to  Thee ; 
And,  all  unworthy  as  I  am, 

My  God  will  cherish  me. 


THE  NARROW   WAY 

BELIEVE  not  those  who  say 

The  upward  path  is  smooth, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  stumble  in  the  way, 

And  faint  before  the  truth. 

It  is  the  only  road 

Unto  the  realms  of  joy  ; 
But  he  who  seeks  that  blest  abode 

Must  all  his  powers  employ. 

Bright  hopes  and  pure  delight 

Upon  his  course  may  beam, 
And  there,  amid  the  sternest  heights 

The  sweetest  flowerets  gleam. 

On  all  her  breezes  borne, 

Earth  yields  no  scents  like  those ; 
But  he  that  dares  not  grasp  the  thorn 

Should  never  crave  the  rose. 

Arm — arm  thee  for  the  fight ! 

Cast  useless  loads  away ; 
Watch  through  the  darkest  hours  of  night, 

Toil  through  the  hottest  day. 


472  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

Crush  pride  into  the  dust, 
Or  thou  must  needs  be  slack ; 

And  trample  down  rebellious  lust, 
Or  it  will  hold  thee  back. 

Seek  not  thy  honour  here ; 

Waive  pleasure  and  renown  ; 
The  world's  dread  scoff  undaunted  bear, 

And  face  its  deadliest  frown. 

To  labour  and  to  love, 

To  pardon  and  endure, 
To  lift  thy  heart  to  God  above, 

And  keep  thy  conscience  pure ; 

Be  this  thy  constant  aim, 
Thy  hope,  thy  chief  delight ; 

What  matter  who  should  whisper  blame, 
Or  who  should  scorn  or  slight  ? 

What  matter,  if  thy  God  approve, 

And  if,  within  thy  breast, 
Thou  feel  the  comfort  of  His  love, 

The  earnest  of  His  rest? 


WHY  should  such  gloomy  silence  reign, 
And  why  is  all  the  house  so  drear, 

When  neither  danger,  sickness,  pain, 

Nor  death,  nor  want,  have  entered  here  ? 

We  are  as  many  as  we  were 

That  other  night,  when  all  were  gay 

And  full  of  hope,  and  free  from  care ; 
Yet  is  there  something  gone  away. 


BY  ACTON  BELL  473 

The  moon  without,  as  pure  and  calm, 

Is  shining  as  that  night  she  shone ; 
But  now,  to  us,  she  brings  no  balm, 

For  something  from  our  hearts  is  gone. 

Something  whose  absence  leaves  a  void — 

A  cheerless  want  in  every  heart ; 
Each  feels  the  bliss  of  all  destroyed, 

And  mourns  the  change — but  each  apart 

The  fire  is  burning  in  the  grate 

As  redly  as  it  used  to  burn ; 
But  still  the  hearth  is  desolate, 

Till  mirth,  and  love,  and  peace  return. 

'Twas  peace  that  flowed  from  heart  to  heart, 
With  looks  and  smiles  that  spoke  of  heaven, 

And  gave  us  language  to  impart 
The  blissful  thoughts  itself  had  given. 

Domestic  peace  !  best  joy  of  earth, 

When  shall  we  all  thy  value  learn  ? 
White  angel,  to  our  sorrowing  hearth, 

Eeturn — oh,  graciously  return  ! 


THE  THEEE  GUIDES1 

SPIBIT  of  Earth  !  thy  hand  is  chill : 

I've  felt  its  icy  clasp  ; 
And,  shuddering,  I  remember  still 

That  stony-hearted  grasp. 
Thine  eye  bids  love  and  joy  depart : 

Oh,  turn  its  gaze  from  me ! 
It  presses  down  my  shrinking  heart ; 

I  will  not  walk  with  thee  ! 

1  First  published  in  Frascr's  Magazine. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

'  Wisdom  is  mine,'  I've  heard  thee  say : 

'  Beneath  my  searching  eye 
All  mist  and  darkness  melt  away, 

Phantoms  and  fables  fly. 
Before  me  truth  can  stand  alone, 

The  naked,  solid  truth  ; 
And  man  matured  by  worth  will  own, 

If  I  am  shunned  by  youth. 

1  Firm  is  my  tread,  and  sure  though  slow  ; 

My  footsteps  never  slide ; 
And  he  that  follows  me  shall  know 

I  am  the  surest  guide.' 
Thy  boast  is  vain  ;  but  were  it  true 

That  thou  couldst  safely  steer 
Life's  rough  and  devious  pathway  through, 

Such  guidance  I  should  fear. 


How  could  I  bear  to  walk  for  aye, 

With  eyes  to  earthward  prone, 
O'er  trampled  weeds  and  miry  clay, 

And  sand  and  flinty  stone  ; 
Never  the  glorious  view  to  greet 

Of  hill  and  dale  and  sky  ; 
To  see  that  Nature's  charms  are  sweet, 

Or  feel  that  Heaven  is  nigh  ? 

If  in  my  heart  arose  a  spring, 

A  gush  of  thought  divine, 
At  once  stagnation  thou  wouldst  bring 

With  that  cold  touch  of  thine. 
If,  glancing  up,  I  sought  to  snatch 

But  one  glimpse  of  the  sky, 
My  baffled  gaze  would  only  catch 

Thy  heartless,  cold  grey  eye. 


BY  ACTON  BELL  475 

If  to  the  breezes  wandering  near 

I  listened  eagerly, 
And  deemed  an  angel's  tongue  to  hear 

That  whispered  hope  to  me, 
That  heavenly  music  would  be  drowned 

In  thy  harsh,  droning  voice  ; 
Nor  inward  thought,  nor  sight,  nor  sound 

Might  my  sad  soul  rejoice. 

Dull  is  thine  ear,  unheard  by  thee 

The  still,  small  voice  of  Heaven  ; 
Thine  eyes  are  dim  and  cannot  see 

The  helps  that  God  has  given. 
There  is  a  bridge  o'er  every  flood 

Which  thou  canst  not  perceive  ; 
A  path  through  every  tangled  wood, 

But  thou  wilt  not  believe. 


Striving  to  make  thy  way  by  force, 

Toil-spent  and  bramble-torn, 
Thou'lt  fell  the  tree  that  checks  thy  course 

And  burst  through  brier  and  thorn  : 
And,  pausing  by  the  river's  side, 

Poor  reasoner  !  thou  wilt  deem, 
By  casting  pebbles  in  its  tide, 

To  cross  the  swelling  stream. 

Right  through  the  flinty  rock  thou'lt  try 

Thy  toilsome  way  to  bore, 
Regardless  of  the  pathway  nigh 

That  would  conduct  thee  o'er. 
Not  only  art  thou,  then,  unkind, 

And  freezing  cold  to  me, 
But  unbelieving,  deaf,  and  blind  : 

I  will  not  walk  with  thee  ! 


476  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

Spirit  of  Pride  !  thy  wings  are  strong, 

Thine  eyes  like  lightning  shine ; 
Ecstatic  joys  to  thee  belong, 

And  powers  almost  divine. 
But  'tis  a  false,  destructive  blaze 

Within  those  eyes  I  see ; 
Turn  hence  their  fascinating  gaze  ; 

I  will  not  follow  thee. 


'  Coward  and  fool ! '  thou  may'st  reply, 

'  Walk  on  the  common  sod  ; 
Go,  trace  with  timid  foot  and  eye 

The  steps  by  others  trod. 
'Tis  best  the  beaten  path  to  keep, 

The  ancient  faith  to  hold ; 
To  pasture  with  thy  fellow-sheep, 

And  lie  within  the  fold. 


'  Cling  to  the  earth,  poor  grovelling  worm ; 

'Tis  not  for  thee  to  soar 
Against  the  fury  of  the  storm, 

Amid  the  thunder's  roar ! 
There's  glory  in  that  daring  strife 

Unknown,  undreamt  by  thee ; 
There's  speechless  rapture  in  the  life 

Of  those  who  follow  me.' 


Yes,  I  have  seen  thy  votaries  oft, 

Upheld  by  thee  their  guide, 
In  strength  and  courage  mount  aloft 

The  steepy  mountain-side ; 
I've  seen  them  stand  against  the  sky, 

And  gazing  from  below, 
Beheld  thy  lightning  in  their  eye, 

Thy  triumph  on  their  brow. 


BY  ACTON   BELL  477 

Oh,  I  have  felt  what  glory  then, 

What  transport  must  be  theirs ! 
So  far  above  their  fellow-men, 

Above  their  toils  and  cares ; 
Inhaling  Nature's  purest  breath, 

Her  riches  round  them  spread, 
The  wide  expanse  of  earth  beneath, 

Heaven's  glories  overhead ! 

But  I  have  seen  them  helpless,  dash'd 

Down  to  a  bloody  grave, 
And  still  thy  ruthless  eye  has  flash'd, 

Thy  strong  hand  did  not  save ; 
I've  seen  some  o'er  the  mountain's  brow 

Sustain'd  awhile  by  thee, 
O'er  rocks  of  ice  and  hills  of  snow 

Bound  fearless,  wild,  and  free. 


Bold  and  exultant  was  their  mien, 

While  thou  didst  cheer  them  on  ; 
But  evening  fell, — and  then,  I  ween, 

Their  faithless  guide  was  gone. 
Alas  !  how  fared  thy  favourites  then — 

Lone,  helpless,  weary,  cold  ? 
Did  ever  wanderer  find  again 

The  path  he  left  of  old  ? 

Where  is  their  glory,  where  the  pride 

That  swelled  their  hearts  before  ? 
Where  now  the -courage  that  defied 

The  mightiest  tempest's  roar  ? 
What  shall  they  do  when  night  grows  black, 

When  angry  storms  arise  ? 
Who  now  will  lead  them  to  the  track 

Thou  taught'st  them  to  despise  ? 


478  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

Spirit  of  Pride !  it  needs  not  this 

To  make  me  shun  thy  wiles, 
Renounce  thy  triumph  and  thy  bliss, 

Thy  honours  and  thy  smiles  ! 
Bright  as  thou  art,  and  bold,  and  strong, 

That  fierce  glance  wins  not  me, 
And  I  abhor  thy  scoffing  tongue — 

I  will  not  follow  thee ! 


Spirit  of  Faith  !  be  thou  my  guide, 

Oh  clasp  my  hand  in  thine, 
And  let  me  never  quit  thy  side ; 

Thy  comforts  are  divine  ! 
Earth  calls  thee  blind,  misguided  one, — 

But  who  can  show  like  thee 
Forgotten  things  that  have  been  done, 

And  things  that  are  to  be  ? 

Secrets  conceal'd  from  Nature's  ken, 

Who  like  thee  can  declare  ? 
Or  who  like  thee  to  erring  men 

God's  holy  will  can  bear  ? 
Pride  scorns  thee  for  thy  lowly  mien, — 

But  who  like  thee  can  rise 
Above  this  toilsome,  sordid  scene, 

Beyond  the  holy  skies  ? 


Meek  is  thine  eye  and  soft  thy  voice, 

But  wondrous  is  thy  might, 
To  make  the  wretched  soul  rejoice, 

To  give  the  simple  light ! 
And  still  to  all  that  seek  thy  way 

This  magic  power  is  given, — 
E'en  while  their  footsteps  press  the  clay, 

Their  souls  ascend  to  heaven. 


BY  ACTON  BELL  479 

Danger  surrounds  them, — pain  and  woe 

Their  portion  here  must  be, 
But  only  they  that  trust  thee  know 

What  comfort  dwells  with  thee  ; 
Strength  to  sustain  their  drooping  pow'r$ 

And  vigour  to  defend, — 
Thou  pole-star  of  my  darkest 

Affliction's  firmest  friend ! 


Day  does  not  always  mark  our  way, 

Night's  shadows  oft  appal, 
But  lead  me,  and  I  cannot  stray, — 

Hold  me,  I  shall  not  fall ; 
Sustain  me,  I  shall  never  faint, 

How  rough  soe'er  may  be 
My  upward  road, — nor  moan,  nor  plaint 

Shall  mar  my  trust  in  thee. 

Narrow  the  path  by  which  we  go, 

And  oft  it  turns  aside 
From  pleasant  meads  where  roses  blow, 

And  peaceful  waters  glide ; 
Where  flowery  turf  lies  green  and  soft, 

And  gentle  gales  are  sweet, 
To  where  dark  mountains  frown  aloft, 

Hard  rocks  distress  the  feet, — 


Deserts  beyond  lie  bleak  and  bare, 

And  keen  winds  round  us  blow ; 
But  if  thy  hand  conducts  me  there, 

The  way  is  right,  I  know. 
I  have  no  wish  to  turn  away ; 

My  spirit  does  not  quail, — 
How  can  it  while  I  hear  thee  say, 

'  Press  forward  and  prevail ! ' 


480  SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 

Even  above  the  tempest's  swell 

I  hear  thy  voice  of  love, — 
Of  hope  and  peace,  I  hear  thee  tell, 

And  that  blest  home  above ; 
Through  pain  and  death  I  can  rejoice, 

If  but  thy  strength  be  mine, — 
Earth  hath  no  music  like  thy  voice, 

Life  owns  no  joy  like  thine ! 

Spirit  of  Faith,  I'll  go  with  thee ! 

Thou,  if  I  hold  thee  fast, 
Wilt  guide,  defend,  and  strengthen  me, 

And  bear  me  home  at  last ; 
By  thy  help  all  things  I  can  do, 

In  thy  strength  all  things  bear, — 
Teach  me,  for  thou  art  just  and  true, 

Smile  on  me,  thou  art  fair ! 


I  have  given  the  last  memento  of  my  sister  Emily ;  this 
is  the  last  of  my  sister  Anne : — 

I  HOPED,  that  with  the  brave  and  strong, 

My  portioned  task  might  lie ; 
To  toil  amid  the  busy  throng, 

With  purpose  pure  and  high. 

But  God  has  fixed  another  part, 

And  He  has  fixed  it  well ; 
I  said  so  with  my  bleeding  heart, 

When  first  the  anguish  fell. 

Thou,  God,  hast  taken  our  delight, 

Our  treasured  hope  away : 
Thou  bidst  us  now  weep  through  the  night 

And  sorrow  through  the  day. 


BY  ACTON  BELL  481 

These  weary  hours  will  not  be  lost, 

These  days  of  misery, 
These  nights  of  darkness,  anguish-tost, 

Can  I  but  turn  to  Thee : 

With  secret  labour  to  sustain 

In  humble  patience  every  blow ; 
To  gather  fortitude  from  pain, 

And  hope  and  holiness  from  woe. 

Thus  let  me  serve  Thee  from  my  heart, 
Whate'er  may  be  my  written  fate : 

Whether  thus  early  to  depart, 
Or  yet  a  while  to  wait. 

If  Thou  shouldst  bring  me  back  to  life, 

More  humbled  I  should  be ; 
More  wise — more  strengthened  for  the  strife— •- 

More  apt  to  lean  on  Thee. 

Should  death  be  standing  at  the  gate, 

Thus  should  I  keep  my  vow : 
But,  Lord  !  whatever  be  my  fate, 

Oh,  let  me  serve  Thee  now ! 

These  lines  written,  the  desk  was  closed,  the  pen  I«"d 
aside — for  ever. 


COTTAGE     POEMS 

BY   THE 

REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE,  B.A. 


Facsimile  of  the  Title-page  of  the  First  Edition. 


BY   THE 

REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE,  B.  A. 

MINISTER 

OF 

HARTSHEAD-CUM-CLIFTOJf, 

NEAR  LEEDS,  YORKSHIRE. 


All  you  who  turn  the  sturdy  soil, 
Or  ply  the  loom  with  daily  toil, 
And  lowly  on,  through  life  turmoil 

For  scanty  fare : 
Attend :  and  gather  richest  spoil, 

To  sooth  your  care; 


Printed  and  sold  by  P.  K.  Holder^  for  the  Author. 

SoU  alto  by  B.  Croiby  an'!  Co.  Sutioncri'  Court,   London ; 

F.  Houhton  and  Son,  Wellington ; 
and  by  the  Bookielleri  of  Halifax,  Lecdi,  York,  See. 


1811. 


COTTAGE    POEMS 


EPISTLE     TO     THE    EEV.    J B ,    WHILST 

JOUENEYING    FOE  THE    EECOVEEY    OF    HIS 
HEALTH 

WHEN  warm'd  with  zeal,  my  rustic  Muse 
Feels  fluttering  fain  to  tell  her  news, 
And  paint  her  simple,  lowly  views 

With  all  her  art, 
And,  though  in  genius  but  obtuse, 

May  touch  the  heart. 

Of  palaces  and  courts  of  kings 
She  thinks  but  little,  never  sings, 
But  wildly  strikes  her  uncouth  strings 

In  some  poor  cot, 
Spreads  o'er  the  poor  her  fostering  wings, 

And  soothes  their  lot. 

Well  pleased  is  she  to  see  them  smile, 

And  uses  every  honest  wile 

To  mend  their  hearts,  their  cares  beguile, 

With  rhyming  story, 
And  lead  them  to  their  God  the  while, 

And  endless  glory. 


488    POEMS  BY  THE  REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

Perchance,  my  poor  neglected  Muse, 
Unfit  to  harass  or  amuse, 
Escaping  praise  and  loud  abuse, 

Unheard,  unknown, 
May  feed  the  moths  and  wasting  dews, 

As  some  have  done. 


Her  aims  are  good,  howe'er  they  end — 
Here  comes  a  foe,  and  there  a  friend, 
These  point  the  dart  and  those  defend, 

Whilst  some  deride  her  ; 
But  God  will  sweetest  comforts  blend, 

Whate'er  betide  her. 


Thus  heaven-supported,  forth  she  goes 
Midst  flatterers,  critics,  friends,  and  foes  : 
Secure,  since  He  who  all  things  knows 

Approves  her  aim, 
And  kindly  fans,  or  fostering  blows 

Her  sinking  flame. 

Hence,  when  she  shows  her  honest  face, 
And  tells  her  tale  with  awkward  grace, 
Importunate  to  gain  a  place 

Amongst  your  friends, 
To  ruthless  critics  leave  her  case, 

And  hail  her  ends. 


To  all  my  heart  is  kind  and  true, 
But  glows  with  ardent  love  for  you ; 
Though  absent,  still  you  rise  in  view, 

And  talk  and  smile, 
Whilst  heavenly  themes,  for  ever  new, 

Our  cares  beguile. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  KEY.  J B 489 

The  happy  seasons  oft  return, 

When  love  our  melting  hearts  did  burn, 

As  we  through  heavenly  themes  were  borne 

With  heavenward  eyes, 
And  Faith  this  empty  globe  would  spurn, 

And  sail  the  skies. 


Or,  when  the  rising  sun  shines  bright, 
Or,  setting,  leaves  the  world  in  night, 
Or,  dazzling,  sheds  his  noon-day  light, 

Or,  cloudy,  hides, 
My  fancy,  in  her  airy  flight, 

With  you  resides. 

Where  far  you  wander  down  the  vale, 
When  balmy  scents  perfume  the  gale, 
And  purling  rills  and  linnets  hail 

The  King  of  kings, 
To  muse  with  you  I  never  fail, 

On  heavenly  things. 

Where  dashing  cataracts  astound, 

And  foaming  shake  the  neighbouring  ground, 

And  spread  a  hoary  mist  around, 

With  you  I  gaze  ! — 
And  think,  amidst  the  deaf  ning  sound, 

On  wisdom's  ways ! 

Where  rocky  mountains  prop  the  skies, 
And  round  the  smiling  landscape  lies, 
Whilst  you  look  down  with  tearful  eyes 

On  grovelling  man, 
My  sympathetic  fancy  flies, 

The  scene  to  scan, 


490    POEMS  BY  THE  REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

From  Pisgah's  top  we  then  survey 
The  blissful  realms  of  endless  day, 
And  all  the  short  but  narrow  way 

That  lies  between, 
Whilst  Faith  emits  a  heavenly  ray, 

And  cheers  the  scene. 


With  you  I  wander  on  the  shore 

To  hear  the  angry  surges  roar, 

Whilst  foaming  through  the  sands  they  pour 

With  constant  roll, 
And  meditations  heavenward  soar, 

And  charm  the  soul. 


On  life's  rough  sea  we're  tempest-driven 
In  crazy  barks,  our  canvas  riven  : 
Such  is  the  lot  to  mortals  given 

Where  sins  resort : 
But  he  whose  anchor's  fixed  in  heaven 

Shall  gain  the  port. 

Though  swelling  waves  oft  beat  him  back, 
And  tempests  make  him  half  a  wreck, 
And  passions  strong,  with  dangerous  tack, 

Retard  his  course, 
Yet  Christ  the  pilot  all  will  check, 

And  quell  their  force. 


So  talk  we  as  we  thoughtful  stray 
Along  the  coast,  where  dashing  spray 
With  rising  mist  o'erhangs  the  day, 

And  wets  the  shore, 
And  thick  the  vivid  flashes  play 

And  thunders  roar ! 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  REV.  J B 491 

Whilst  passing  o'er  this  giddy  stage, 
A  pious  and  a  learned  sage 
Resolved  eternal  war  to  wage 

With  passions  fell : 
How  oft  you  view  with  holy  rage 

These  imps  of  hell ! 


See !  with  what  madd'ning  force  they  sway 
The  human  breast  and  lead  astray, 
Down  the  steep,  broad,  destructive  way, 

The  giddy  throng ; 
Till  grisly  death  sweeps  all  away 

The  fiends  among ! 

As  when  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

And  sounding  mingles  earth  and  skies, 

And  wild  confusion  'fore  the  eyes 

In  terror's  dressed, 
So  passions  fell  in  whirlwinds  rise, 

And  rend  the  breast ! 


But  whilst  this  direful  tempest  raves, 
And  many  barks  are  dashed  to  staves, 
I  see  you  tower  above  the  waves 

Like  some  tall  rock, 
Whose  base  the  harmless  ocean  laves 

Without  a  shock ! 


'Tis  He  who  calmed  the  raging  sea, 
Who  bids  the  waves  be  still  in  thee, 
And  keeps  you  from  all  dangers  free 

Amidst  the  wreck ; 
All  sin,  and  care,  and  dangers  flee 

E'en  at  his  beck. 


492    POEMS  BY  THE  REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

And  on  that  greaf  and  dreadful  day 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
Each  soul  to  hliss  he  will  convey, 

That  knows  his  name  ; 
And  give  the  giddy  world  a  prey 

To  quenchless  flame. 


So  oft  when  Sabbaths  bade  us  rest, 
And  heavenly  zeal  inspired  your  breast, 
Obedient  to  the  high  behest 

You  preached  to  all, 
Whilst  God  your  zealous  efforts  blessed, 

And  owned  your  call. 

The  very  thought  my  soul  inspires, 
And  kindles  bright  her  latent  fires  ; 
My  Muse  feels  heart-warm  fond  desires, 

And  spreads  her  wing, 
And  aims  to  join  th'  angelic  choirs, 

And  sweetly  sing. 

May  rosy  Health  with  speed  return, 
And  all  your  wonted  ardour  burn, 
And"  sickness  buried  in  his  urn, 

Sleep  many  years ! 
So,  countless  friends  who  loudly  mourn, 

Shall  dry  their  tears ! 

Your  wailing  flock  will  all  rejoice 

To  hear  their  much-loved  shepherd's  voice, 

And  long  will  bless  the  happy  choice 

Their  hearts  have  made, 
And  tuneful  mirth  will  swell  the  noise 

Through  grove  and  glade. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  ftEV.  J B 493 

Your  dearer  half  will  join  with  me 

To  celebrate  the  jubilee, 

And  praise  the  Great  Eternal  Three 

With  throbbing  joy, 
And  taste  those  pleasures  pure  and  free 

Which  never  cloy. 


THE  HAPPY  COTTAGERS 

ONE  sunny  morn  of  May, 

When  dressed  in  flowery  green 
The  dewy  landscape,  charmed 
With  Nature's  fairest  scene, 
In  thoughtful  mood 

I  slowly  strayed 
O'er  hill  and  dale, 

Through  bush  and  glade. 

Throughout  the  cloudless  sky 

Of  light  unsullied  blue, 
The  larks  their  matins  raised, 
Whilst  on  my  dizzy  view, 
Like  dusty  motes, 

They  winged  their  way 
Till  vanished  in 
The  blaze  of  day. 

The  linnets  sweetly  sung 

On  every  fragrant  thorn, 
Whilst  from  the  tangled  wood 
The  blackbirds  hailed  the  morn ; 
And  through  the  dew 
Ban  here  and  there, 
But  half  afraid, 
The  startled  hare. 


494    POEMS  BY  THE  EEV.  PATKICK  BRONTE 

The  balmy  breeze  just  kissed 

The  countless  dewy  gems 

Which  decked  the  yielding  blade 

Or  gilt  the  sturdy  stems, 

And  gently  o'er 

The  charmed  sight 
A  deluge  shed 

Of  trembling  light. 


A  sympathetic  glow 

Ran  through  my  melting  soul, 
And  calm  and  sweet  delight 
O'er  all  my  senses  stole  ; 
And  through  my  heart 

A  grateful  flood 
Of  joy  rolled  on 
To  Nature's  God. 


Time  flew  unheeded  by, 

Till  weai-ied  and  oppressed, 
Upon  a  flowery  bank 
I  laid  me  down  to  rest ; 
Beneath  my  feet 

A  purling  stream 
Ran  glittering  in 
The  noontide  beam. 


I  turned  me  round  to  view 
The  lovely  rural  scene  ; 
And,  just  at  hand,  I  spied 
A  cottage  on  the  green  ; 
The  street  was  clean, 

The  walls  were  white, 
The  thatch  was  neat, 
The  window  bright. 


THE  HAPPY  COTTAGEKS  495 

Bold  chanticleer,  arrayed 
In  velvet  plumage  gay, 
With  many  an  amorous  dame, 
Fierce  strutted  o'er  the  way ; 
And  motley  ducks 

Were  waddling  seen, 
And  drake  with  neck 
Of  glossy  green. 

The  latch  I  gently  raised, 

And  oped  the  humble  door ; 
An  oaken  stool  was  placed 
On  the  neat  sanded  floor ; 
An  aged  man 

Said  with  a  smile, 
'  You're  welcome,  sir : 
Come  rest  a  while.' 


His  coarse  attire  was  clean, 

His  manner  rude  yet  kind : 
His  air,  his  words,  and  looks 
Showed  a  contented  mind ; 
Though  mean  and  poor, 

Thrice  happy  he, 
As  by  our  tale 
You  soon  shall  see. 


But  don't  expect  to  hear 

Of  deeds  of  martial  fame, 
Or  that  our  peasant  mean 
Was  born  of  rank  or  name, 
And  soon  will  strut, 

As  in  romance, 
A  knight  and  all 
In  armour  glance, 


496    POEMS  BY  THE  EEV.  PATEICK  BKONTE 

I  sing  of  real  life  ; 

All  else  is  empty  show — 
To  those  who  read  a  source 
Of  much  unreal  woe  ; 
Pollution,  too, 

Through  novel-veins, 
Oft  fills  the  mind 
With  guilty  stains. 

Our  peasant  long  was  bred 
Affliction's  meagre  child, 
Yet  gratefully  resigned, 

Loud  hymning  praises,  smiled, 
And  like  a  tower 

He  stood  unmoved, 
Supported  by 
The  God  he  loved. 


His  loving  wife  long  since 

Was  numbered  with  the  dead ; 
His  son,  a  martial  youth, 
Had  for  his  country  bled  ; 
And  now  remained 

One  daughter  fair, 
And  only  she, 

To  soothe  his  care. 

The  aged  man  with  tears 

Spoke  of  the  lovely  maid  ; 
How  earnestly  she  strove 
To  lend  her  father  aid, 
And  as  he  ran 

Her  praises  o'er, 
She  gently  oped 
The  cottage-door. 


THE  HAPPY  COTTAGERS  497 

With  vegetable  store 

The  table  soon  she  spread, 
And  pressed  me  to  partake  ; 
Whilst  blushes  rosy-red 
Suffused  her  face — . 

The  old  man  smiled, 
Well  pleased  to  see 
His  darling  child. 

With  venerable  air 

He  then  looked  up  to  God, 
A  blessing  craved  on  all, 
And  on  our  daily  food  ; 
Then  kindly  begged 

I  would  excuse 
Their  humble  fare, 
And  not  refuse. — 


The  tablecloth,  though  coarse, 

Was  of  a  snowy  white, 
The  vessels,  spoons,  and  knives 
Were  clean  and  dazzling  bright ; 
So  down  we  sat 

Devoid  of  care, 
Nor  envied  kings 
Their  dainty  fare. 

When  nature  was  refreshed, 

And  we  familiar  grown, 
The  good  old  man  exclaimed, 
'  Around  Jehovah's  throne, 
Come,  let  us  all 

Our  voices  raise, 
And  sing  our  great 
Redeemer's  praise  I  * 


498    POEMS  BY   THE  REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

Their  artless  notes  were  sweet, 

Grace  ran  through  every  line  ; 
Their  breasts  with  rapture  swelled, 
Their  looks  were  all  divine  : 
Delight  o'er  all 

My  senses  stole, 
And  heaven's  pure  joy 
O'erwhelmed  my  soul. 


When  we  had  praised  our  God, 
And  knelt  around  His  throne, 
The  aged  man  began 

In  deep  and  zealous  tone, 
With  hands  upraised 

And  heavenward  eye, 
And  prayed  aloud 
And  fervently  : 

He  prayed  that  for  His  sake, 

Whose  guiltless  blood  was  shed 
For  guilty  ruined  man, 
We  might  that  day  be  fed 
With  that  pure  bread 

Which  cheers  the  soul, 
And  living  stream 
Where  pleasures  roll. 

He  prayed  long  for  all, 

And  for  his  daughter  dear, 
That  she,  preserved  from  ill, 
Might  lead  for  many  a  year 
A  spotless  life 

When  he's  no  more ; 
Then  follow  him 
To  Canaan's  shore. 


»7 


THE   HAPPY  COTTAGERS  499 

His  faltering  voice  then  fell, 

His  tears  were  dropping  fast, 
And  muttering  praise  to  God 
For  all  His  mercies  past, 
He  closed  his  prayer 

Midst  heavenly  joys, 
And  tasted  bliss 
Which  never  cloys. 

In  sweet  discourse  we  spent 

The  fast  declining  day  : 
We  spoke  of  Jesus'  love, 
And  of  that  narrow  way 

Which  leads,  through  care 

And  toil  below, 
To  streams  where  joys 
Eternal  flow. 


The  wondrous  plan  of  Grace, 

Adoring,  we  surveyed, 
The  birth  of  heavenly  skill — 
In  Love  Eternal  laid — 
Too  deep  for  clear 

Angelic  ken, 
And  far  beyond 
Dim-sighted  men. 

To  tell  you  all  that  passed 

Would  far  exceed  my  power; 
Suffice  it,  then,  to  say, 
Joy  winged  the  passing  hour, 
Till,  ere  we  knew, 
The  setting  day 
Had  clad  the  world 
In  silver  grey. 


500    POEMS   BY   THE   REV.  PATRICK   BRONTE 

I  kindly  took  my  leave, 

And  blessed  the  happy  lot 
Of  those  I  left  behind 

Lodged  in  their  humble  cot ; 
And  pitied  some 

In  palace  walls, 
Where  pride  torments 
And  pleasure  palls. 

The  silver  moon  now  shed 

A  flood  of  trembling  light 
On  tower,  and  tree,  and  stream ; 
The  twinkling  stars  shone  bright ; 
Nor  misty  stain 

Nor  cloud  was  seen 
O'er  all  the  deep 
Celestial  green. 

Mild  was  the  lovely  night, 

Nor  stirred  a  whispering  breeze  ; 
Smooth  was  the  glassy  lake, 
And  still  the  leafy  ti-ees ; 
No  sound  in  air 

Was  heard  afloat, 
Save  Philomel's 
Sweet  warbling  note. 

My  thoughts  were  on  the  wing, 

And  back  my  fancy  fled 
To  where  contentment  dwelt 
In  the  neat  humble  shed  ; 
To  shining  courts 

From  thence  it  ran, 
Where  restless  pride 
Oppresses  man. 


THE  HAPPY   COTTAGERS  501 

In  fame  some  search  for  bliss, 
Some  seek  content  in  gain, 
In  search  of  happiness 

Some  give  the  slackened  rein 
To  passions  fierce, 

And  down  the  stream, 
Through  giddy  life, 
Of  pleasures  dream. 

These  all  mistake  the  way, 

As  many  more  have  done  : 
The  narrow  path  of  bliss 
Through  God's  Eternal  Son 
Directly  tends  ; 
And  only  he 
Who  treads  this  path 
Can  happy  be. 

Who  anchors  all  above 
Has  still  a  happy  lot, 
Though  doomed  for  life  to  dwell 
E'en  in  a  humble  cot, 
And  when  he  lays 

This  covering  down 
He'll  wear  a  bright 
Immortal  crown. 


THE   RAINBOW 

THE  shower  is  past,  and  the  sky 
O'erhead  is  both  mild  and  serene, 

Save  where  a  few  drops  from  on  high, 
Like  gems,  twinkle  over  the  green  : 


602    POEMS  BY  THE  REV.  PATRICK  BRONTfi 

And  glowing  fair,  in  the  black  north, 
The  rainbow  o'er-arches  the  cloud ; 

The  sun  in  his  glory  comes  forth, 
And  larks  sweetly  warble  aloud. 

That  dismally  grim  northern  sky 

Says  God  in  his  vengeance  once  frowned, 
And  opened  his  flood-gates  on  high, 

Till  obstinate  sinners  were  drowned : 
The  lively  bright  south,  and  that  bow, 

Say  all  this  dread  vengeance  is  o'er  ; 
These  colours  that  smilingly  glow 

Say  we  shall  be  deluged  no  more. 

Ever  blessed  be  those  innocent  days, 

Ever  sweet  their  remembrance  to  me  ; 
When  often,  in  silent  amaze, 

Enraptured,  I'd  gaze  upon  thee  ! 
Whilst  arching  adown  the  black  sky 

Thy  colours  glowed  on  the  green  hill, 
To  catch  thee  as  lightning  I'd  fly, 

But  aye  you  eluded  my  skill. 

From  hill  unto  hill  your  gay  scene 

You  shifted — whilst  crying  aloud, 
I  ran,  till  at  length  from  the  green, 

You  shifted,  at  once,  to  the  cloud  1 
So,  vain  worldly  phantoms  betray 

The  youths  who  too  eager  pursue, 
When  ruined  and  far  led  astray, 

Th*  illusion  escapes  from  their  view. 

Those  peaceable  days  knew  no  care, 
Except  what  arose  from  my  play, 

My  favourite  lambkin  and  hare, 
And  cabin  I  built  o'er  the  way. 


THE  BAINBOW  503 

No  cares  did  I  say  ?    Ah  !     I'm  wrong : 
Even  childhood  from  cares  is  not  free : 

Far  distant  I  see  a  grim  throng 
Shake  horrible  lances  at  me  ! 

One  day — I  remember  it  still — 

For  pranks  I  had  played  on  the  clown 
Who  lived  on  a  neighbouring  hill, 

My  cabin  was  trod  to  the  ground. 
Who  ever  felt  grief  such  as  I 

When  crushed  by  this  terrible  blow ! 
Not  Priam,  the  monarch  of  Troy, 

When  all  his  proud  towers  lay  low. 

And  grief  upon  grief  was  my  lot : 

Soon  after,  my  lambkin  was  slain  ; 
My  hare,  having  strayed  from  its  cot, 

Was  chased  by  the  hounds  o'er  the  plain. 
What  countless  calamities  teem 

From  memory's  page  on  my  view  ! — 
How  trifling  soever  you  seem, 

Yet  once  I  have  wept  over  you. 

Then  cease,  foolish  heart,  to  repine ; 

No  stage  is  exempted  from  care : 
If  you  would  true  happiness  find, 

Come  follow ;  and  I'll  show  you  where. 
But,  first,  let  us  take  for  our  guide 

The  Word  which  Jehovah  has  penned  ; 
By  this  the  true  path  is  descried 

Which  leads  to  a  glorious  end. 

How  narrow  this  path  to  our  view  ! 

How  steep  an  ascent  lies  before  ! 
Whilst,  foolish  fond  heart,  laid  for  you 

Are  dazzling  temptations  all  o'er. 


504    POEMS  BY  T"SE  &EV.  PATRICK  BBONTE 

What  by-ways  with  easy  descent 
Invite  us  through  pleasures  to  stray ! 

Whilst  Satan,  with  hellish  intent, 
Suggests  that  we  ought  to  obey. 

But  trust  not  the  father  of  lies, 

He  tempts  you  with  vanity's  dream  ; 
His  pleasure,  when  touched,  quickly  dies, 

Lake  bubbles  that  dance  on  the  stream. 
Look  not  on  the  wine  when  it  glows 

All  ruddy,  in  vessels  of  gold ; 
At  last  it  will  sting  your  repose, 

And  death  at  the  bottom  unfold.1 

But  lo  !  an  unnatural  night 

Pours  suddenly  down  on  the  eye  ; 
The  sun  has  withdrawn  all  his  light, 

And  rolls  a  black  globe  o'er  the  sky ! 
And  hark  !  what  a  cry  rent  the  air  ! 

Immortal  the  terrible  sound  ! 
The  rocks  split  with  horrible  tear, 

And  fearfully  shakes  all  the  ground ! 

The  dead  from  their  slumbers  awake, 

And,  leaving  their  mouldy  domain, 
Make  poor  guilty  mortals  to  quake 

As  pallid  they  glide  o'er  the  plain  ! 
Sure  Nature's  own  God  is  oppressed, 

And  Nature  in  agony  cries ; — 
The  sun  in  his  mourning  is  dressed, 

To  tell  the  sad  news  through  the  skies ! 

Yet  surely  some  victory's  gained, 
Important,  and  novel,  and  great, 

Since  Death  has  his  captives  unchained 
And  widely  thrown  open  his  gate  ! 

1  Proverbs  xxiii.  31,  32. 


THfi  RAiftBOW  565 

Yes,  victory  great  as  a  God 

Could  gain  over  hell,  death,  and  sin, 

This  moment's  achieved  by  the  blood 
Of  Jesus,  our  crucified  King. 

But  all  the  dread  conflict  is  o'er  ; 

Lo !  cloud  after  cloud  rolls  away  ; 
And  heaven,  serene  as  before, 

Breaks  forth  in  the  splendour  of  day ; 
And  all  the  sweet  landscape  around, 

Emerged  from  the  ocean  of  night, 
With  groves,  woods,  and  villages  crowned, 

Astonish  and  fill  with  delight ! 

But  see  !  where  that  crowd  melts  away, 

Three  crosses  sad  spectacles  show  ! 
Our  Guide  has  not  led  us  astray  ; 

Heart !  this  is  the  secret  you'd  know — 
Two  thieves,  and  a  crucified  God 

Hangs  awfully  mangled  between  ! 
Whilst  fast  from  his  veins  spouting  blood 

Runs,  dyeing  with  purple  the  green ! 

Behold  !  the  red  flood  rolls  along, 

And  forming  a  bason  below, 
Is  termed  in  Emanuel's  song 

The  fount  for  uncleanness  and  woe. 
Immerged  in  that  precious  tide, 

The  soul  quickly  loses  its  stains, 
Though  deeper  than  crimson  they're  dyed, 

And  'scapes  from  its  sorrows  and  pains. 

This  fountain  is  opened  for  you  : 
Go,  wash,  without  money  or  price, 

And  instantly  formed  anew, 

You'll  lose  all  your  woes  in  a  trice. 


506    POEMS  BY  THE  KEY.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

Then  cease,  foolish  heart,  to  repine, 
No  stage  is  exempted  from  care  ; 

If  you  would  true  happiness  find, 
'Tis  on  Calvary — seek  for  it  there. 


WINTER-NIGHT  MEDITATIONS 

RUDE  winter's  come,  the  sky's  o'ercast, 
The  night  is  cold  and  loud  the  blast, 
The  mingling  snow  comes  driving  down, 
Fast  whitening  o'er  the  flinty  ground. 
Severe  their  lots  whose  crazy  sheds 
Hang  tottering  o'er  their  trembling  heads: 
Whilst  blows  through  walls  and  chinky  door 
The  drifting  snow  across  the  floor, 
Where  blinking  embers  scarcely  glow, 
And  rushlight  only  serves  to  show 
What  well  may  move  the  deepest  sigh, 
And  force  a  tear  from  pity's  eye. 
You  there  may  see  a  meagre  pair, 
Worn  out  with  labour,  grief,  and  care  : 
Whose  naked  babes,  in  hungry  mood, 
Complain  of  cold  and  cry  for  food  ; 
Whilst  tears  bedew  the  mother's  cheek, 
And  sighs  the  father's  grief  bespeak  ; 
For  fire  or  raiment,  bed  or  board, 
Their  dreary  shed  cannot  afford. 

Will  no  kind  hand  confer  relief, 
And  wipe  away  the  tear  of  grief  ? 
A  little  boon  it  well  might  spare 
Would  kindle  joy,  dispel  their  care, 
Abate  the  rigour  of  the  night, 
And  warm  each  heart — achievement  bright ! 


WINTER-NIGHT  MEDITATIONS  507 

Yea,  brighter  far  than  such  as  grace 
The  annals  of  a  princely  race, 
Where  kings  bestow  a  large  domain 
But  to  receive  as  much  again, 
Or  e'en  corrupt  the  purest  laws, 
Or  fan  the  breath  of  vain  applause. 

Peace  to  the  man  who  stoops  his  head 
To  enter  the  most  wretched  shed  : 
Who,  with  his  condescending  smiles, 
Poor  diffidence  and  awe  beguiles  : 
Till  all  encouraged,  soon  disclose 
The  different  causes  of  their  woes — 
The  moving  tale  dissolves  his  heart ; 
He  liberally  bestows  a  part 
Of  God's  donation.     From  above 
Approving  Heaven,  in  smiles  of  love, 
Looks  on,  and  through  the  shining  skies 
The  great  Recording  Angel  flies 
The  doors  of  mercy  to  unfold, 
And  write  the  deed  in  lines  of  gold  ; 
There,  if  a  fruit  of  Faith's  fair  tree, 
To  shine  throughout  eternity, 
In  honour  of  that  Sovereign  dread, 
Who  had  no  place  to  lay  His  head, 
Yet  opened  wide  sweet  Mercy's  door 
To  all  the  desolate  and  poor, 
Who,  stung  with  guilt  and  hard  oppressed, 
Groaned  to  be  with  Him,  and  at  rest. 

Now,  pent  within  the  city  wall, 
They  throng  to  theatre  and  hall, 
Where  gesture,  look,  and  words  conspire 
To  stain  the  mind,  the  passions  fire  ; 
Whence  sin-polluted  streams  abound, 
That  whelm  the  country  all  around. 


508    POEMS  BY   THE  KEY.  PATEICK  BKONTE 

Ah  !  Modesty,  should  you  be  here, 
Close  up  the  eye  and  stop  the  ear  ; 
Oppose  your  fan,  nor  peep  beneath, 
And  blushing  shun  their  tainted  breath. 

Here  every  rake  exerts  his  art 
T'  ensnare  the  unsuspecting  heart. 
The  prostitute,  with  faithless  smiles, 
Remorseless  plays  her  tricks  and  wiles. 
Her  gesture  bold  and  ogling  eye, 
Obtrusive  speech  and  pert  reply, 
And  brazen  front  and  stubborn  tone, 
Show  all  her  native  virtue's  flown. 
By  her  the  thoughtless  youth  is  ta'en, 
Impoverished,  disgraced,  or  slain  : 
Through  her  the  marriage  vows  are  broke, 
And  Hymen  proves  a  galling  yoke. 
Diseases  come,  destruction's  dealt, 
"Where'er  her  poisonous  breath  is  felt ; 
Whilst  she,  poor  wretch,  dies  in  the  flame 
That  runs  through  her  polluted  frame. 

Once  she  was  gentle,  fair,  and  kind, 
To  no  seducing  schemes  inclined, 
Would  blush  to  hear  a  smutty  tale, 
Nor  ever  strolled  o'er  hill  or  dale, 
But  lived  a  sweet  domestic  maid, 
To  lend  her  aged  parents  aid — 
And  oft  they  gazed  and  oft  they  smiled 
On  this  their  loved  and  only  child  : 
They  thought  they  might  in  her  be  blest, 
And  she  would  see  them  laid  at  rest. 

A  blithesome  youth  of  courtly  mien 
Oft  called  to  see  this  rural  queen  : 
His  oily  tongue  and  wily  art 
Soon  gained  Maria's  yielding  heart. 


WINTER-NIGHT   MEDITATIONS  509 

The  aged  pair,  too,  liked  the  youth, 

And  thought  him  nought  but  love  and  truth. 

The  village  feast  at  length  is  come  ; 

Maria  by  the  youth's  undone  : 

The  youth  is  gone — so  is  her  fame  ; 

And  with  it  all  her  sense  of  shame  : 

And  now  she  practises  the  art 

Which  snared  her  unsuspecting  heart ; 

And  vice,  with  a  progressive  sway, 

More  hardened  makes  her  every  day. 

Averse  to  good  and  prone  to  ill, 

And  dexterous  in  seducing  skill ; 

To  look,  as  if  her  eyes  would  melt : 

T'  affect  a  love  she  never  felt ; 

To  half  suppress  the  rising  sigh  ; 

Mechanically  to  weep  and  cry  ; 

To  vow  eternal  truth,  and  then 

To  break  her  vow,  and  vow  again  : 

Her  ways  are  darkness,  death,  and  hell : 

Kemorse  and  shame  and  passions  fell, 

And  short-lived  joy,  with  endless  pain, 

Pursue  her  in  a  gloomy  train. 


O  Britain  fair,  thou  queen  of  isles  ! 
Nor  hostile  arms  nor  hostile  wiles 
Could  ever  shake  thy  solid  throne 
But  for  thy  sins.     Thy  sins  alone 
Can  make  thee  stoop  thy  royal  head, 
And  lay  thee  prostrate  with  the  dead. 
In  vain  colossal  England  mows, 
With  ponderous  strength,  the  yielding  foes  ; 
In  vain  fair  Scotia,  by  her  side, 
With  courage  flushed  and  Highland  pride, 
Whirls  her  keen  blade  with  horrid  whistle, 
And  lops  off  heads  like  tops  of  thistle  ; 
In  vain  brave  Erin,  famed  afar, 


510    POEMS  BY   THE   REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

The  flaming  thunderbolt  of  war, 
Profuse  of  life,  through  blood  does  wade, 
To  lend  her  sister  kingdom  aid  : 
Our  conquering  thunders  vainly  roar 
Terrific  round  the  Gallic  shore  ; 
Profoundest  statesmen  vainly  scheme — 
'Tis  all  a  vain,  delusive  dream, 
If  treacherously  within  our  breast 
We  foster  sin,  the  deadly  pest. 

Where  Sin  abounds  Religion  dies, 
And  Virtue  seeks  her  native  skies  ; 
Chaste  Conscience  hides  for  very  shame, 
And  Honour's  but  an  empty  name. 
Then,  like  a  flood,  with  fearful  din, 
A  gloomy  host  comes  pouring  in. 
First  Bribery,  with  her  golden  shield, 
Leads  smooth  conniption  o'er  the  field  ; 
Dissension  wild,  with  brandished  spear, 
And  Anarchy  bring  up  the  rear : 
Whilst  Care  and  Sorrow,  Grief  and  Pain 
Run  howling  o'er  the  bloody  plain. 

O  Thou,  whose  power  resistless  fills 
The  boundless  whole,  avert  those  ills 
We  richly  merit :  purge  away 
The  sins  which  on  our  vitals  prey ; 
Protect,  with  Thine  almighty  shield 
Our  conquering  arms  by  flood  and  field, 
Wheel  round  the  time  when  Peace  shall  smile 
O'er  Britain's  highly-favoured  Isle  ; 
When  all  shall  loud  hosannas  sing 
To  Thee,  the  great  Eternal  King  ! 

But  hark  !  the  bleak,  loud  whistling  wind  1 
Its  crushing  blast  recalls  to  mind 


WINTEK-NIGHT  MEDITATIONS  511 

The  dangers  of  the  troubled  deep ; 

Where,  with  a  fierce  and  thundering  sweep, 

The  winds  in  wild  distraction  rave, 

And  push  along  the  mountain  wave 

With  dreadful  swell  and  hideous  curl ! 

Whilst  hung  aloft  in  giddy  whirl, 

Or  dropt  beneath  the  ocean's  bed, 

The  leaky  bark  without  a  shred 

Of  rigging  sweeps  through  dangers  dread. 

The  flaring  beacon  points  the  way, 

And  fast  the  pumps  loud  clanking  play  : 

It  'vails  not — hark  !  with  crashing  shock 

She's  shivered  'gainst  the  solid  rock, 

Or  by  the  fierce,  incessant  waves 

Is  beaten  to  a  thousand  staves  ; 

Or,  bilging  at  her  crazy  side, 

Admits  the  thundering  hostile  tide, 

And  down  she  sinks  ! — triumphant  rave 

The  winds,  and  close  her  wat'ry  grave ! 

The  merchant's  care  and  toil  are  vain, 
His  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  main — 
In  vain  the  mother's  tearful  eye 
Looks  for  its  sole  remaining  joy — 
In  vain  fair  Susan  walks  the  shore, 
And  sighs  for  him  she'll  see  no  more — 
For  deep  they  lie  in  ocean's  womb, 
And  fester  in  a  wat'ry  tomb. 

Now,  from  the  frothy,  thundering  main, 
My  meditations  seek  the  plain, 
Where,  with  a  swift  fantastic  flight, 
They  scour  the  regions  of  the  night, 
Free  as  the  winds  that  wildly  blow 
O'er  hill  and  dale  the  blinding  snow, 
Or,  through  the  woods,  their  frolics  play, 
And  whirling,  sweep  the  dusty  way, 


512    POEMS  BY  THE  BEV.  PATKICK  BBONTE 

When  summer  shines  with  burning  glare, 
And  sportive  breezes  skim  the  air, 
And  Ocean's  glassy  breast  is  fanned 
To  softest  curl  by  Zephyr  bland. 

But  Summer's  gone,  and  Winter  here 
With  iron  sceptre  rules  the  year — 
Beneath  this  dark,  inclement  sky 
How  many  wanderers  faint  and  die ! 
One,  flouncing  o'er  the  treacherous  snow, 
Sinks  in  the  pit  that  yawns  below ! 
Another  numbed,  with  panting  lift 
Inhales  the  suffocating  drift ! 
And  creeping  cold,  with  stiffening  force, 
Extends  a  third,  a  pallid  corse ! 

Thus  death,  in  varied  dreadful  form, 
Triumphant  rides  along  the  storm  : 
With  shocking  scenes  assails  the  sight, 
And  makes  more  sad  the  dismal  night ! 
How  blest  the  man,  whose  lot  is  free 
From  such  distress  and  misery ; 
Who,  sitting  by  his  blazing  fire, 
Is  closely  wrapped  in  warm  attire  ; 
Whose  sparkling  glasses  blush  with  wine 
Of  mirthful  might  and  flavour  fine ; 
Whose  house,  compact  and  strong,  defies 
The  rigour  of  the  angry  skies ! 
The  ruffling  winds  may  blow  their  last, 
And  snows  come  driving  on  the  blast ; 
And  frosts  their  icy  morsels  fling, 
But  all  within  is  mild  as  spring ! 

How  blest  is  he  ! — blest  did  I  say  ? 
E'en  sorrow  here  oft  finds  its  way. 
The  senses  numbed  by  frequent  use, 
Or  criminal,  absurd  abuse 


WINTEE-NIGHT   MEDITATIONS  513 

Of  heaven's  blessings,  listless  grow, 
And  life  is  but  a  dream  of  woe. 

Oft  fostered  on  the  lap  of  ease, 
Grow  racking  pain  and  foul  disease, 
And  nervous  whims,  a  ghastly  train, 
Inflicting  more  than  corp'ral  pain  : 
Oft  gold  and  shining  pedigree 
Prove  only  splendid  misery. 
The  king  who  sits  upon  his  throne, 
And  calls  the  kneeling  world  his  own, 
Has  oft  of  cares  a  greater  load 
Than  he  who  feels  his  iron  rod. 

No  state  is  free  from  care  and  pain 
Where  fiery  passions  get  the  rein, 
Or  soft  indulgence,  joined  with  ease, 
Begets  a  thousand  ills  to  tease  : 
Where  fair  Religion,  heavenly  maid, 
Has  slighted  still  her  offered  aid. 
Her  matchless  power  the  will  subdues, 
And  gives  the  judgment  clearer  views  : 
Denies  no  source  of  real  pleasure, 
And  yields  us  blessings  out  of  measure ; 
Our  prospect  brightens,  proves  our  stay, 
December  turns  to  smiling  May ; 
Conveys  us  to  that  peaceful  shore, 
By  raging  billows  lashed  no  more, 
Where  endless  happiness  remains, 
And  one  eternal  summer  reigns. 


5H  POEMS  BY  THE  KEY.  PATEICK  BEONTE 


VEESES  SENT  TO  A  LADY  ON  HEE  BIBTHDAY 

THE  joyous  day  illumes  the  sky 
That  bids  each  care  and  sorrow  fly 

To  shades  of  endless  night : 
E'en  frozen  age,  thawed  in  the  fires 
Of  social  mirth,  feels  young  desires, 

And  tastes  of  fresh  delight. 

In  thoughtful  mood  your  parents  dear, 
Whilst  joy  smiles  through  the  starting  tear, 

Give  approbation  due 
As  each  drinks  deep  in  mirthful  wine 
Your  rosy  health,  and  looks  benign 

Are  sent  to  heaven  for  you. 

But  let  me  whisper,  lovely  fair, 
This  joy  may  soon  give  place  to  care, 

And  sorrow  cloud  this  day  ; 
Full  soon  your  eyes  of  sparkling  blue, 
And  velvet  lips  of  scarlet  hue, 

Discoloured,  may  decay. 

As  bloody  drops  on  virgin  snows, 
So  vies  the  lily  with  the  rose 

Full  on  your  dimpled  cheek; 
But  ah  !  the  worm  in  lazy  coil 
May  soon  prey  on  this  putrid  spoil, 

Or  leap  in  loathsome  freak. 

Fond  wooers  come  with  flattering  tale, 
And  load  with  sighs  the  passing  gale, 

And  love-distracted  rave  : 
But  hark,  fair  maid  !  whate'er  they  say, 
You're  but  a  breathing  mass  of  clay, 
Fast  ripening  for  the  grave. 


TO  A  LADY   ON   HEK  BIBTHDAY  5l5 

Behold  how  thievish  Time  has  been  ! 
Full  eighteen  summers  you  have  seen, 

And  yet  they  seem  a  day  ! 
Whole  years,  collected  in  Time's  glass, 
In  silent  lapse  how  soon  they  pass, 

And  steal  your  life  away ! 


The  flying  hour  none  can  arrest, 
Nor  yet  recall  one  moment  past, 

And  what  more  dread  must  seem 
Is,  that  to-morrow's  not  your  own — 
Then  haste  !  and  ere  your  life  has  flown 

The  subtle  hours  redeem. 


Attend  with  care  to  what  I  sing : 
Know  time  is  ever  on  the  wing  ; 

None  can  its  flight  detain  ; 
Then,  like  a  pilgrim  passing  by, 
Take  home  this  hint,  as  time  does  fly, 

1  All  earthly  things  are  vain." 

Let  nothing  here  elate  your  breast, 
Nor,  for  one  moment,  break  your  rest ; 

In  heavenly  wisdom  grow  : 
Still  keep  your  anchor  fixed  above, 
Where  Jesus  reigns  in  boundless  love, 

And  streams  of  pleasure  flow. 


So  shall  your  life  glide  smoothly  by 
Without  a  tear,  without  a  sigh, 

And  purest  joys  will  crown 
Each  birthday,  as  the  year  revolves, 
Till  this  clay  tenement  dissolves, 

And  leaves  the  soul  unbound. 


516    POEMS  BY  THE  KEY.  PATEICK  BRONTE 

Then  shall  you  land  on  Canaan's  shore, 
Where  time  and  chance  shall  be  no  more, 

And  joy  eternal  reigns ; 
There,  mixing  with  the  seraphs  bright, 
And  dressed  in  robes  of  heavenly  light, 

You'll  raise  angelic  strains. 


THE  IRISH   CABIN 

SHOULD  poverty,  modest  and  clean, 

E'er  please,  when  presented  to  view, 
Should  cabin  on  brown  heath,  or  green, 

Disclose  aught  engaging  to  you, 
Should  Erin's  wild  harp  soothe  the  ear 

When  touched  by  such  fingers  as  mine, 
Then  kindly  attentive  draw  near, 

And  candidly  ponder  each  line. 

One  day,  when  December's  keen  breath 

Arrested  the  sweet  running  rill, 
And  Nature  seemed  frozen  in  death, 

I  thoughtfully  strolled  o'er  the  hill : 
The  mustering  clouds  wore  a  frown, 

The  mountains  were  covered  with  snow, 
And  Winter  his  mantle  of  brown 

Had  spread  o'er  the  landscape  below. 

Thick  rattling  the  footsteps  were  heard 

Of  peasants  far  down  in  the  vale  ; 
From  lakes,  bogs,  and  marshes  debarred, 

The  wild-fowl,  aloft  on  the  gale, 
Loud  gabbling  and  screaming  were  borne, 

Whilst  thundering  guns  hailed  the  day, 
And  hares  sought  the  thicket  forlorn, 

Or,  wounded,  ran  over  the  way. 


THE  IKISH  CABIN  517 

No  music  was  heard  in  the  grove, 

The  blackbird  and  linnet  and  thrush, 
And  goldfinch  and  sweet  cooing  dove, 

Sat  pensively  rnute  in  the  bush  : 
The  leaves  that  once  wove  a  green  shade 

Lay  withered  in  heaps  on  the  ground : 
Chill  Winter  through  grove,  wood,  and  glade 

Spread  sad  desolation  around. 

But  now  the  keen  north  wind  'gan  whistle, 

And  gusty,  swept  over  the  sky  ; 
Each  hair,  frozen,  stood  like  a  bristle, 

And  night  thickened  fast  on  the  eye. 
In  swift-wheeling  eddies  the  snow 

Fell,  mingling  and  drifting  amain, 
And  soon  all  distinction  laid  low, 

As  whitening  it  covered  the  plain. 

A  light  its  pale  ray  faintly  shot 

(The  snow-flakes  its  splendour  had  shorn), 
It  came  from  a  neighbouring  cot, 

Some  called  it  the  Cabin  of  Mourne  : * 
A  neat  Irish  Cabin,  snow-proof, 

Well  thatched,  had  a  good  earthen  floor, 
One  chimney  in  midst  of  the  roof, 

One  window,  and  one  latched  door. 

Escaped  from  the  pitiless  storm, 

I  entered  the  humble  retreat ; 
Compact  was  the  building,  and  warm, 

Its  furniture  simple  and  neat. 
And  now,  gentle  reader,  approve 

The  ardour  that  glowed  in  each  breast, 
As  kindly  our  cottagers  strove 

To  cherish  and  welcome  their  guest. 

1  Mourne  consists  chiefly  of  a  range  of  high  mountains  in  the  north  of 
Ireland. 


518    POEMS  BY   THE   BEV.  PATRICK  BBONTE 

The  dame  nimbly  rose  from  her  wheel, 

And  brushed  off  the  powdery  snow : 
Her  daughter,  forsaking  the  reel, 

Ban  briskly  the  cinders  to  blow : 
The  children,  who  sat  on  the  hearth, 

Leaped  up  without  murmur  or  frown, 
An  oaken  stool  quickly  brought  forth, 

And  smilingly  bade  me  sit  down. 


Whilst  grateful  sensations  of  joy 

O'er  all  my  fond  bosom  were  poured, 
Besumed  was  each  former  employ, 

And  gay  thrifty  order  restored : 
The  blaze  flickered  up  to  the  crook, 

The  reel  clicked  again  by  the  door, 
The  dame  turned  her  wheel  in  the  nook, 

And  frisked  the  sweet  babes  round  the  floor. 

Beleased  from  the  toils  of  the  barn, 

His  thrifty,  blithe  wife  hailed  the  sire, 
And  hanging  his  flail  by  her  yarn, 

He  drew  up  his  stool  to  the  fire  ; 
Then  smoothing  his  brow  with  his  hand, 

As  if  he  would  sweep  away  sorrow, 
He  says,  '  Let  us  keep  God's  command, 

And  never  take  thought  for  the  morrow.' 

Brisk  turning  him  round  with  a  smile, 

And  freedom  unblended  by  art, 
And  affable  manners  and  style, 

Though  simple,  that  reached  to  my  heart, 
He  said  (whilst  with  ardour  he  glowed), 

'  Kind  sir,  we  are  poor,  yet  we're  blest : 
We're  all  in  the  steep,  narrow  road 

That  leads  to  the  city  of  rest. 


THE  IEISH  CABIN  519 

'  "Pis  true,  I  must  toil  all  the  day, 

And  oft  suffer  cold  through  the  night, 
Though  silvered  all  over  with  grey, 

And  dimly  declining  my  sight : 
And  sometimes  our  raiment  and  food 

Are  scanty — ah  !  scanty  indeed  : 
But  all  work  together  for  good, 

So  in  my  blest  Bible  I  read. 


'  I  also  have  seen  in  that  Book 

(Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  the  place  ?  ) 
How  God  on  poor  sinners  does  look 

In  pity,  and  gives  them  his  grace — 
Yea,  gives  them  his  grace  in  vast  store, 

Sufficient  to  help  them  quite  through, 
Though  troubles  should  whelm  them  all  o'er ; 

And  sure  this  sweet  promise  is  true ! 

'  Yes,  true  as  the  snow  blows  without, 

And  winds  whistle  keen  through  the  air, 
His  grace  can  remove  every  doubt, 

And  chase  the  black  gloom  of  despair  : 
It  often  supports  my  weak  mind, 

And  wipes  the  salt  tear  from  my  eye, 
It  tells  me  that  Jesus  is  kind, 

And  died  for  such  sinners  as  I. 

'  I  once  rolled  in  wealth,  without  grace, 

But  happiness  n'er  was  my  lot, 
Till  Christ  freely  pitied  my  case, 

And  now  I  am  blest  in  a  cot : 
Well  knowing  things  earthly  are  vain, 

Their  troubles  ne'er  puzzle  my  head  ; 
Convinced  that  to  die  will  be  gain, 

I  look  on  the  grave  as  my  bed. 


520    POEMS  BY   THE   KEY.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

1 1  look  on  the  grave  as  my  bed, 

Where  I'll  sleep  the  swift  hours  away, 
Till  waked  from  their  slumbers,  the  dead 

Shall  rise,  never  more  to  decay  : 
Then  I,  with  my  children  and  wife, 

Shall  get  a  bright  palace  above, 
And  endlessly  clothed  with  life, 

Shall  dwell  in  the  Eden  of  love. 

'  Then  know,  gentle  stranger,  though  poor, 

We're  cheerful,  contented,  and  blest ; 
Though  princes  should  pass  by  our  door, 

King  Jesus  is  ever  our  guest ; 
We  feel,  and  we  taste,  and  we  see 

The  pleasures  which  flow  from  our  Lord, 
And  fearless,  and  wealthy,  and  free, 

We  live  on  the  joys  of  his  word.' 

He  ceased  :  and  a  big  tear  of  joy 

Rolled  glittering  down  to  the  ground  ; 
Whilst  all,  having  dropped  their  employ, 

Were  buried  in  silence  profound  ; 
A  sweet,  solemn  pause  long  ensued — 

Each  bosom  o'erflowed  with  delight ; 
Then  heavenly  converse  renewed, 

Beguiled  the  dull  season  of  night. 

We  talked  of  the  rough  narrow  way 

That  leads  to  the  kingdom  of  rest ; 
On  Pisgah  we  stood  to  survey 

The  King  in  his  holiness  dressed — 
Even  Jesus,  the  crucified  King, 

Whose  blood  in  rich  crimson  does  flow, 
Clean  washing  the  crimson  of  sin, 

And  rinsing  it  whiter  than  snow.1 

1  Isaiah  i.  18. 


THE  IRISH   CABIN  521 

But  later  and  later  it's  wearing, 

And  supper  they  cheerfully  bring 
The  mealy  potato  and  herring, 

And  water  just  fresh  from  the  spring. 
They  press,  and  they  smile  :  we  sit  down  ; 

First  praying  the  Father  of  love 
Our  table  with  blessings  to  crown, 

And  feed  us  with  bread  from  above. 


The  wealthy  and  bloated  may  sneer, 

And  sicken  o'er  luxury's  dishes, 
And  loathe  the  poor  cottager's  cheer, 

And  melt  in  the  heat  of  their  wishes : 
But  luxury's  sons  are  unblest, 

A  prey  to  each  giddy  desire, 
And  hence,  where  they  never  know  rest, 

They  sink  in  unquenchable  fire. 

Not  so,  the  poor  cottager's  lot, 

Who  travels  the  Zion-ward  road, 
He's  blest  in  his  neat  little  cot, 

He's  rich  in  the  favour  of  God  ; 
By  faith  he  surmounts  every  wave 

That  rolls  on  this  sea  of  distress : 
Triumphant,  he  dives  in  the  grave, 

To  rise  in  the  ocean  of  bliss. 


Now  supper  is  o'er,  and  we  raise 

Our  prayers  to  the  Father  of  light, 
And  joyfully  hymning  His  praise, 

We  lovingly  bid  a  good-night. — 
The  ground's  white,  the  sky's  cloudless  blue, 

The  breeze  flutters  keen  through  the  air, 
The  stars  twinkle  bright  on  my  view, 

As  I  to  my  mansion  repair. 


522    POEMS  BY   THE   REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

All  peace,  my  dear  cottage,  be  thine  ! 

Nor  think  that  I'll  treat  you  with  scorn  ; 
Whoever  reads  verses  of  mine 

Shall  hear  of  the  Cabin  of  Mourne  ; 
And  had  I  but  musical  strains, 

Though  humble  and  mean  in  your  station, 
You  should  smile  whilst  the  world  remains, 

The  pride  of  the  fair  Irish  Nation. 

In  friendship,  fair  Erin,  you  glow  ; 

Offended,  you  quickly  forgive  ; 
Your  courage  is  known  to  each  foe, 

Yet  foes  on  your  bounty  might  live. 
Some  faults  you,  however,  must  own  ; 

Dissensions,  impetuous  zeal, 
And  wild  prodigality,  grown 

Too  big  for  your  income  and  weal. 

Ah  !  Erin,  if  you  be  great, 

And  happy,  and  wealthy,  and  wise, 
And  trample  your  sorrows,  elate, 

Contend  for  our  cottager's  prize  ; 
So  error  and  vice  shall  decay, 

And  concord  add  bliss  to  renown, 
And  you  shall  gleam  brighter  than  day, 

The  gem  of  the  fair  British  Crown. 


TO  THE  REV.  J.   GILPIN,   ON   HIS  IMPROVED 
EDITION    OF  THE   'PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS' 

WHEN,  Reverend  Sir,  your  good  design, 
To  clothe  our  Pilgrim  gravely  fine, 
And  give  him  gentler  mien  and  gait, 
First  readied  my  ear,  his  doubtful  fate 


TO  THE   REV.  J.  GILPIN  523 

With  dread  suspense  my  mind  oppi'essed, 
Awoke  my  fears,  and  broke  my  rest. 
Yet,  still,  had  England  said,  '  You're  free, 
Choose  whom  you  will,'  dear  sir,  to  thee, 
For  dress  beseeming  modest  worth, 
I  would  have  led  our  Pilgrim  forth. 

But  when  I  viewed  him  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  scrutinised  the  weeds  he  wore, 
And  marked  his  mien  and  marked  his  gait, 
And  saw  him  trample  sin,  elate, 
And  heard  him  speak,  though  coarse  and  plain, 
His  mighty  truths  in  nervous  strain, 
I  could  not  gain  my  own  consent 
To  your  acknowledged  good  intent. 

I  had  my  fears,  lest  honest  John, 
When  he  beheld  his  polished  son 
(If  saints  aught  earthly  care  to  know), 
Would  take  him  for  some  Bond  Street  beau, 
Or  for  that  thing — it  wants  a  name — 
Devoid  of  truth,  of  sense  and  shame, 
Which  smoothes  its  chin  and  licks  its  lip, 
And  mounts  the  pulpit  with  a  skip, 
Then  turning  round  its  pretty  face, 
To  smite  each  fair  one  in  the  place, 
Relaxes  half  to  vacant  smile, 
And  aims  with  trope  and  polished  style, 
And  lisp  affected,  to  pourtray 
Its  silly  self  in  colours  gay — 
Its  fusty  moral  stuff  t'  unload, 
And  preach  itself,  and  not  its  God. 
Thus,  wishing,  doubting,  trembling  led, 
I  oped  your  book,  your  Pilgrim  read. 

As  insing  Phoebus  lights  the  skies, 
And  fading  night  before  him  flies, 


524    POEMS  BY  THE   REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

Till  darkness  to  his  cave  is  hurled 
And  golden  day  has  gilt  the  world, 
Nor  vapour,  cloud,  nor  mist  is  seen 
To  sully  all  the  pure  serene  : 
So,  as  I  read  each  modest  line, 
Increasing  light  began  to  shine, 
My  cloudy  fears  and  doubts  gave  way, 
Till  all  around  shone  Heaven's  own  day. 


And  when  I  closed  the  book,  thought  I, 
Should  Bunyan  leave  his  throne  on  high, 
He'd  own  the  kindness  you  have  done 
To  Christian,  his  oi'phan  son  : 
And  smiling  as  once  Eden  smiled, 
Would  thus  address  his  holy  child  : — 


1  My  son,  ere  I  removed  from  hence, 
I  spared  nor  labour  nor  expense 
To  gain  for  you  the  heavenly  prize, 
And  teach  you  to  make  others  wise. 
But  still,  though  inwai'd  worth  was  thine, 
You  lay  a  diamond  in  the  mine  : 
You  wanted  outward  polish  bright 
To  show  your  pure  intrinsic  light. 
Some  knew  your  worth,  and  seized  the  prize, 
And  now  are  throned  in  the  skies  : 
Whilst  others  swilled  with  folly's  wine, 
But  trod  the  pearl  like  the  swine, 
In  ignorance  sunk  in  their  grave, 
And  thence,  where  burning  oceans  lave. 
Now  polished  bright,  your  native  flame 
And  inward  worth  are  still  the  same : 
A  flaming  diamond  still  you  glow, 
In  brighter  hues  :  then  cheery  go — 


TO  THE  REV.  J.   GILPIN  525 

More  suited  by  a  skilful  hand 
To  do  your  father's  high  command  : 
Fit  ornament  for  sage  or  clown, 
Or  beggar's  rags,  or  kingly  crown. 


THE  COTTAGE   MAID 

ALOFT  on  the  brow  of  a  mountain, 
And  hard  by  a  clear  running  fountain, 

In  neat  little  cot, 

Content  with  her  lot, 
Retired,  there  lives  a  sweet  maiden. 

Her  father  is  dead,  and  her  brother — 
And  now  she  alone  with  her  mother 
Will  spin  on  her  wheel, 
And  sow,  knit,  and  reel, 
And  cheerfully  work  for  their  living. 

To  gossip  she  never  will  roam, 
She  loves,  and  she  stays  at,  her  home, 
Unless  when  a  neighbour 
In  sickness  does  labour, 
Then,  kindly,  she  pays  her  a  visit. 

With  Bible  she  stands  by  her  bed, 
And  when  some  blest  passage  is  read, 
In  prayer  and  in  praises 
Her  sweet  voice  she  raises 
To  Him  who  for  sinners  once  died. 

Well  versed  in  her  Bible  is  she, 
Her  language  is  artless  and  free, 

Imparting  pure  joy, 

That  never  can  cloy, 
And  smoothing  the  pillow  of  death. 


526    POEMS   BY   THE   EEV.  PATRICK  BRONTL 

To  novels  and  plays  not  inclined, 
Nor  aught  that  can  sully  her  mind  ; 

Temptations  may  shower, — 

Unmoved  as  a  tower, 
She  quenches  the  fiery  arrows. 

She  dresses  as  plain  as  the  lily 
That  modestly  grows  in  the  valley, 
And  never  will  go 
To  play,  dance  or  show — 
She  calls  them  the  engines  of  Satan. 

With  tears  in  her  eyes  she  oft  says, 
'  Away  with  your  dances  and  plays  ! 

The  ills  that  perplex 

The  half  of  our  sex 
Are  owing  to  you,  Satan's  engines.' 

Released  from  her  daily  employment, 
Intent  upon  solid  enjoyment, 

Her  time  she  won't  idle, 

But  reads  in  her  Bible, 
And  books  that  divinely  enlighten. 

Whilst  others  at  wake,  dance,  and  play 
Chide  life's  restless  moments  away, 

And  ruin  their  souls — 

In  pleasure  she  rolls, 
The  foretaste  of  heavenly  joys. 

Her  soul  is  refined  by  her  Lord, 

She  shines  in  the  ti-uths  of  His  word : 

Each  Christian  grace 

Shines  full  in  her  face, 
And  heightens  the  glow  of  her  charms. 


THE   COTTAGE   MAID  527 

One  day  as  I  passed  o'er  the  mountain 
She  sung  by  a  clear  crystal  fountain 

(Nor  knew  I  was  near) ; 

Her  notes  charmed  my  ear, 
As  thus  she  melodiously  chanted  : — 

'  Oh  !  when  shall  we  see  our  dear  Jesus  ? 
His  presence  from  poverty  frees  us, — 

And  bright  from  His  face 

The  rays  of  His  grace 
Beam,  purging  transgression  for  ever  f 

'  Oh  !  when  shall  we  see  our  dear  Jesus  ? 
His  presence  from  sorrow  will  ease  us, 

When  up  to  the  sky 

With  angels  we  fly — 
Then  farewell  all  sorrow  for  ever  ! 

'  Come  quickly  !  come  quickly,  Lord  Jesus ! 
Thy  presence  alone  can  appease  us ; 

For  aye  on  Thy  breast 

Believers  shall  rest, 
Where  blest  they  shall  praise  Thee  for  ever.' 

Oh,  had  you  but  seen  this  sweet  maiden ! 
She  smiled  like  the  flowers  of  Eden, 

And  raised  to  the  skies 

Her  fond  beaming  eyes, 
And  sighed  to  be  with  her  Redeemer. 

Whilst  thus  she  stood  heavenly  musing, 
And  sometimes  her  Bible  perusing, 

Came  over  the  way, 

All  silvered  with  grey, 
A  crippled  and  aged  poor  woman. 


528    POEMS  BY  THE  REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

Her  visage  was  sallow  and  thin, 

Through  her  rags  peeped  her  sunburnt  skin, 

With  sorrow  oppressed, 

She  held  to  her  breast 
An  infant,  all  pallid  with  hunger. 

Half  breathless  by  climbing  the  mountain, 
She  tremblingly  stood  by  the  fountain, 

And  begged  that  our  maid 

Would  lend  her  some  aid, 
And  pity  both  her  and  her  infant. 

Our  maiden  had  nought  but  her  earning — 
Her  heart  with  soft  pity  was  yearning ; 

She  drooped  like  a  lily 

Bedewed  in  the  valley, 
Whilst  tears  fell  in  pearly  showers. 

With  air  unaffected  and  winning, 
To  cover  them,  of  her  own  spinning, 
Her  apron  of  blue, 
Though  handsome  and  new, 
She  gave,  and  led  them  to  her  cottage. 

All  peace,  my  dear  maiden,  be  thine : 
Your  manners  and  looks  are  divine  ; 

On  earth  you  shall  rest, 

In  heaven  be  blest, 
And  shine  like  an  angel  for  ever. 

More  blest  than  the  king  on  the  throne 
Is  he  who  shall  call  you  his  own  ! 

The  ruby,  with  you 

Compared,  fades  to  blue — 
Its  price  is  but  dust  on  the  balance.1 

1  Proverbs  xixi.  10. 


THE  COTTAGE  MAID  529 

Religion  makes  beauty  enchanting, 
And  even  where  beauty  is  wanting, 

The  temper  and  mind, 

Religion-refined, 
Will  shine  through  the  veil  with  sweet  lustre. 


THE   SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY 

THE  sun  shines  bright,  the  morning's  fair, 
The  gossamers  !  float  on  the  air, 
The  dew-gems  twinkle  in  the  glare, 

The  spider's  loom 
Is  closely  plied,  with  artful  care, 

Even  in  my  room. 

See  how  she  moves  in  zigzag  line, 
And  draws  along  her  silken  twine, 
Too  soft  for  touch,  for  sight  too  fine, 

Nicely  cementing : 
And  makes  her  polished  drapery  shine, 

The  edge  indenting. 

Her  silken  ware  is  gaily  spread, 
And  now  she  weaves  herself  a  bed, 
Where,  hiding  all  but  just  her  head, 

She  watching  lies 
For  moths  or  gnats,  entangled  spread, 

Or  buzzing  flies. 

You  cunning  pest !  why,  forward,  dare 
So  near  to  lay  your  bloody  snare ! 
But  you  to  kingly  courts  repair 

With  fell  design, 
And  spread  with  kindred  courtiers  there 

Entangling  twine.2 

1  Gossamers  are  the  fine  down  of  plants  or  the  slender  threads  of 
insects,  which  are  frequently  seen  to  glide  through  the  sunny 
atmosphere.  2  Proverbs  xxx.  28. 


530    POEMS  BY  THE  BEV.  PATEICK  13KONTE 

Ah,  silly  fly  !  will  you  advance  ? 
I  see  you  in  the  sunbeam  dance : 
Attracted  by  the  silken  glance 

In  that  dread  loom ; 
Or  blindly  led,  by  fatal  chance, 

To  meet  your  doom. 


Ah  !  think  not,  'tis  the  velvet  flue 
Of  hare,  or  rabbit,  tempts  your  view ; 
Or  silken  threads  of  dazzling  hue, 

To  ease  your  wing, 
The  foaming  savage,  couched  for  you, 

Is  on  the  spring. 

Entangled  !  freed  ! — and  yet  again 

You  touch  !  'tis  o'er — that  plaintive  strain. 

That  mournful  buzz,  that  struggle  vain, 

Proclaim  your  doom : 
Up  to  the  murderous  den  you're  ta'en, 

Your  bloody  tomb ! 

So  thoughtless  youths  will  trifling  play 
With  dangers  on  their  giddy  way, 
Or  madly  err  in  open  day 

Through  passions  fell, 
And  fall,  though  warned  oft,  a  prey 

To  death  and  hell ! 


But  hark  !  the  fluttering  leafy  trees 
Proclaim  the  gently  swelling  breeze, 
Whilst  through  my  window,  by  degrees, 

Its  breathings  play  : 
The  spider's  web,  all  tattered  flees, 

Like  thought,  away. 


THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY  531 

Thus  worldlings  lean  on  broken  props, 
And  idly  weave  their  cobweb-hopes, 
And  hang  o'er  hell  by  spider's  ropes, 

Whilst  sins  enthral ; 
Affliction  blows — their  joy  elopes — 

And  down  they  fall !  l 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERGYMAN 

'  Study  to  show  thyself  approved  unto  God,  a  workman  that  needeth 
not  to  be  ashamed,  rightly  dividing  the  word  of  truth.' — 2  Tim.  ii.  15. 

MY  youthful  brother,  oft  I  long 
To  write  to  you  in  prose  or  song ; 
With  no  pretence  to  judgment  strong, 

But  warm  affection — 
May  truest  friendship  rivet  long 

Our  close  connection ! 

With  deference,  what  I  impart 
Receive  with  humble  grateful  heart, 
Nor  proudly  from  my  counsel  start, 

I  only  lend  it — 
A  friend  ne'er  aims  a  poisoned  dart — 

He  wounds,  to  mend  it. 

A  graduate  you've  just  been  made, 
And  lately  passed  the  Mitred  Head  ; 
I  trust,  by  the  Blest  Spirit,  led, 

And  Shepherd's  care  : 
And  not  a  wolf,  in  sheepskin  clad, 

As  numbers  are. 

lg  '  Job  viii.  13,  14. 


532    POEMS  BY  THE   &EV.  PATKICK  BRONTE 

The  greatest  office  you  sustain 
For  love  of  souls,  and  not  of  gain : 
Through  your  neglect  should  one  be  slain, 

The  Scriptures  say, 
Your  careless  hands  his  blood  will  stain, 

On  the  Last  Day. 

But  if  pure  truths,  like  virgin  snows, 
You  loud  proclaim,  to  friends  and  foes, 
Consoling  these,  deterring  those — 

To  heaven  you'll  fly ; 
Though  stubborn  sinners  still  oppose, 

And  graceless  die.1 

Divide  the  word  of  truth  aright, 
Show  Jesus  in  a  saving  light, 
Proclaim  to  all  they're  dead  outright 

Till  Grace  restore  them  ;  2 
The  great  Redeemer,  full  in  sight, 

Keep  still  before  them. 

Dare  not,  like  some,  to  mince  the  matter 
Nor  dazzling  tropes  and  figures  scatter, 
Nor  coarsely  speak  nor  basely  flatter, 

Nor  grovelling  go  : 
But  let  plain  truths,  as  Life's  pure  water, 

Pellucid  flow. 

The  sinner  level  with  the  dead, 
The  Lamb  exalt,  the  Church's  Head, 
His  hoHness,  adoring  spread, 

With  godly  zeal ; 
Enforce,  though  sinless,  how  he  bled 

For  sinners'  weal. 

1  Ezekiel  xxxiii.  8,  9.  2  Ephes.  ii.  1-8. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERGYMAN       533 

Pourtray  how  God  in  thunder  spoke 
His  fiery  Law,  whilst  curling  smoke, 
In  terror  fierce,  from  Sinai  broke, 

Midst  raging  flame  ! 
Then  Jesu's  milder  blood  invoke, 

And  preach  His  name. 

Remember  still  to  fear  the  Lord, 
To  live,  as  well  as  preach,  His  word, 
And  wield  the  Gospel's  two-edged  sword, 

Though  dangers  lower — 
Example  only  can  afford 

To  precept  power. 

And  dress  nor  slovenly  nor  gay, 
Nor  sternly  act,  nor  trifling  play  ; 
Still  keep  the  golden  middle  way 

Whate'er  betide  you  ; 
And  ne'er  through  giddy  pleasures  stray, 

Though  fools  deride  you. 

As  wily  serpent  ever  prove, 
Yet  harmless  as  the  turtle-dove, 
Still  winning  souls  by  guileful  love 

And  deep  invention — 
So  once  the  great  Apostle  strove 

With  good  intention.1 

And  inly  to  thyself  take  heed, 

Oft  prove  your  heart,  its  pages  read, — 

Self-knowledge  will,  in  time  of  need, 

Your  wants  supply  ; 
Who  knows  himself,  from  danger's  freed, 

Where'er  he  lie. 

1  St.  Paul,  2  Cor.  xii.  16. 


534    POEMS  BY  THE  REV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

So  God  will  own  the  labours  done, 
Approving  see  His  honoured  Son, 
And  honoured  Law  ;  and  numbers  won 

Of  souls  immortal, 
Through  grace,  will  onward  conquering  run 

To  heaven's  bright  portal. 

And  on  that  last  and  greatest  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
A  perfect  band,  in  bright  array, 

Will  form  your  crown, 
Your  joys  triumphant  wide  display, 

And  sorrows  drown. 

And  now  farewell,  my  youthful  friend — 
Excuse  these  lines,  in  candour  penned  ; 
To  me  as  freely  counsel  lend, 

With  zeal  as  fervent — 
For  you  will  pray,  till  life  does  end, 

Your  humble  servant. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  LABOURING   POOR 

ALL  you  who  turn  the  sturdy  soil, 
Or  ply  the  loom  with  daily  toil, 
And  lowly  on  through  life  turmoil 

For  scanty  fare, 
Attend,  and  gather  richest  spoil 

To  soothe  your  care. 

I  write  with  tender,  feeling  heart — 
Then  kindly  read  what  I  impart ; 
'Tis  freely  penned,  devoid  of  art, 

In  homely  style, 
'Tis  meant  to  ward  off  S.'.tan's  dart, 

And  show  his  guile. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE   LABOURING  POOR     535 

I  write  to  ope  your  sin-closed  eyes, 
And  make  you  great,  and  rich,  and  wise, 
And  give  you  peace  when  trials  rise, 

And  sorrows  gloom ; 
I  write  to  fit  you  for  the  skies 

On  Day  of  Doom. 


What,  though  you  dwell  in  lowly  cot, 
And  share  through  life  a  humble  lot  ? 
Some  thousands  wealth  and  fame  have  got, 

Yet  know  no  rest : 
They  build,  pull  down,  and  scheme  and  plot, 

And  die  unblest. 


Your  mean  attire  and  scanty  fare 
Are,  doubtless,  springs  of  bitter  care — 
Expose  you  blushing,  trembling,  bare, 

To  haughty  scorn  ; 
Yet  murmur  not  in  black  despair, 

Nor  weep  forlorn. 

You  see  that  lordling  glittering  ride, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  wealth  and  pride, 
With  lady  lolling  at  his  side, 

And  train  attendant : 
'Tis  all,  when  felt  and  fairly  tried, 

But  care  resplendent. 

As  riches  grow  his  wants  increase, 
His  passions  burn  and  gnaw  his  peace, 
Ambition  foams  like  raging  seas 

And  breaks  the  rein, 
Excess  produces  pale  disease 

And  racking  pain. 


536    POEMS  BY  THE  EEV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

Compared  with  him  thrice  happy  you  ; 
Though  small  your  stock  your  wants  are  few — 
Each  wild  desire  your  toils  subdue, 

And  sweeten  rest, 
Remove  all  fancied  ills  from  view, 

And  calm  your  breast. 


Your  labours  give  the  coarsest  food 
A  relish  sweet  and  cleanse  the  blood, 
Make  cheerful  health  in  spring-tide  flood 

Incessant  boil, 
And  seldom  restless  thoughts  obtrude 

On  daily  toil. 

Those  relish  least  who  proudly  own 
Rich  groves  and  parks  familiar  grown  ; 
The  gazing  stranger  passing  on 

Enjoys  them  most — 
The  toy  possessed — the  pleasure's  flown, 

For  ever  lost  1 


Then  grateful  let  each  murmur  die, 
And  joyous  wipe  the  tearful  eye  : 
Erect  a  palace  in  the  sky — 

Be  rich  in  grace  : 
Loathe  this  vain  world,  and  longing  sigh 

For  Jesu's  face. 


Both  rich  and  poor,  who  serve  not  God, 
But  live  in  sin,  averse  to  good, 
Rejecting  Christ's  atoning  blood, 

Midst  hellish  shoals, 
Shall  welter  in  that  fiery  flood, 

Which  hissing  rolls. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE   LABOURING  POOR     537 

But  all  who  worship  God  aright, 
In  Christ  His  Son  and  image  bright, 
With  minds  illumed  by  Gospel  light, 

Shall  find  the  way 
That  leads  to  bliss,  and  take  their  flight 

To  heavenly  day. 


There  rich  and  poor,  and  high  and  low, 
Nor  sin,  nor  pain,  nor  sorrow  know  : 
There  Christ  with  one  eternal  glow 

Gives  life  and  light — 
There  streams  of  pleasure  ever  flow, 

And  pure  delight. 

Christ  says  to  all  with  sin  oppressed, 
'  Come  here,  and  taste  of  heavenly  rest, 
Receive  Me  as  your  friendly  guest 

Into  your  cots ; 
In  Me  you  shall  be  rich  and  blest, 

Though  mean  your  lots. 

1  Behold  my  hands,  my  feet,  my  side, 
All  crimsoned  with  the  bloody  tide  I 
For  you  I  wept,  and  bled,  and  died, 

And  rose  again : 
And  throned  at  my  Father's  side, 

Now  plead  amain ! 

'  Repent,  and  enter  Mercy's  door, 
And  though  you  dwell  in  cots  obscure, 
All  guilty,  ragged,  hungry,  poor, 

I  give  in  love 
A  crown  of  gold,  and  pardon  sure, 

To  each  above.' 


538    POEMS  BY   THE  EEV.  PATRICK  BRONTE 

Then  hear  the  kind,  inviting  voice — 

Believing  in  the  Lord  rejoice ; 

Your  souls  will  hymn  the  happy  choice 

To  God  on  high, 
Whilst  joyful  angels  swell  the  noise 

Throughout  the  sky. 

A  fond  farewell ! — each  cottage  friend, 
To  Jesu's  love  I  would  commend 
Your  souls  and  bodies,  to  the  end 

Of  life's  rough  way  ; 
Then  (death  subdued)  may  you  ascend 

To  endless  day ! 


THE  COTTAGER'S  HYMN 


MY  food  is  but  spare, 

And  humble  my  cot, 
Yet  Jesus  dwells  there 

And  blesses  my  lot : 
Though  thinly  I'm  clad, 

And  tempests  oft  roll, 
He's  raiment,  and  bread, 

And  drink  to  my  soul. 

ii 

His  presence  is  wealth, 

His  grace  is  a  treasure 
His  promise  is  health 

And  joy  out  of  measure, 
His  word  is  my  rest, 

His  spirit  my  guide  : 
Tn  Him  I  am  blest 

Whatever  betide. 


THE  COTTAGER'S  HYMN  539 

in 

Since  Jesus  is  mine, 

Adieu  to  all  sorrow  ; 
I  ne'er  shall  repine, 

Nor  think  of  to-morrow  : 
The  lily  so  fair, 

And  raven  so  black, 
He  nurses  with  care, 

Then  how  shall  I  lack  ? 

IV 

Each  promise  is  sure, 

That  shines  in  His  word, 
And  tells  me,  though  poor, 

I'm  rich  in  my  Lord. 
Hence  !  Sorrow  and  Fear ! 

Since  Jesus  is  nigh, 
I'll  dry  up  each  tear 

And  stifle  each  sigh. 


Though  prince,  duke,  or  lord, 

Ne'er  enter  my  shed, 
King  Jesus  my  board 

With  dainties  does  spread. 
Since  He  is  my  guest, 

For  joy  I  shall  sing, 
And  ever  be  blest 

In  Jesus  my  King. 

VI 

With  horrible  din 

Afflictions  may  swell, — 
They  cleanse  me  from  sin, 

They  save  me  from  hell : 


540    POEMS  BY  THE  EEV.  PATEICK  BRONTE 

They're  all  but  the  rod 

Of  Jesus,  in  love  ; 
They  lead  me  to  God 

And  blessings  above. 


VII 

Through  sickness  and  pain 

I  flee  to  my  Lord, 
Sweet  comfort  to  gain, 

And  health  from  His  word 
Bleak  scarcities  raise 

A  keener  desire, 
To  feed  on  His  grace, 

And  wear  His  attire. 


vni 

The  trials  which  frown, 

Applied  by  His  blood, 
But  plait  me  a  crown, 

And  work  for  my  good, 
In  praise  I  shall  tell, 

When  throned  in  my  rest, 
The  things  which  befell 

Were  always  the  best. 

IX 

Whatever  is  hid 

Shall  burst  on  my  sight 
When  hence  I  have  fled 

To  glorious  light. 
Should  chastisements  lower, 

Then  let  me  resign  ; 
Should  kindnesses  shower, 

Let  gratitude  shine. 


THE   COTTAGER'S  HYMN  541 

x 

Hence  !  Sorrow  and  Fear ! 

Since  Jesus  is  nigh, 
I'll  dry  up  each  tear, 

And  stifle  each  sigh : 
And  clothed  in  His  word 

Will  conquer  my  foes, 
And  follow  my  Lord 

Wherever  He  goes. 

XI 

My  friends  !  let  us  fly 

To  Jesus  our  King  ; 
And  still  as  we  hie, 

Of  grace  let  us  sing. 
Through  pleasure  and  pain, 

If  faithful  we  prove, 
For  cots  we  shall  gain 

A  palace  above. 


INDEX 

TO 

FIRST   LINES   OF   THE   POEMS 


PAOB 

ABOVE  the  city  hung  the  moon 332 

Ah  !  why,  because  the  dazzling  sun 380 

A  little  while,  a  little  while 446 

All  yon  who  turn  the  sturdy  soil 534 

Aloft  on  the  brow  of  a  mountain 525 

Arranging  long-locked  drawers  and  shelves 310 

'  Ay — there  it  is  !  it  wakes  to-night ' 453 


BELIEVE  not  those  who  say 471 

Blessed  be  thou  for  all  the  joy 468 

Brightly  the  sun  of  summer  shone 418 

But  two  miles  more,  and  then  we  rest 319 


CHILD  ol  delight,  with  sun-bright  hair        .        . 

Cold  in  the  earth  -  and  the  deep  snow  piled  above  thee  , 


DEATH  !  that  struck  when  I  was  most  confiding 402 


'  ELLEN  you  were  thoughtless  once  ' 436 

Enough  of  thought,  philosopher  ! 382 

Eternal  Power,  of  earth  and  air  I 421 


FOR  him  who  struck  thy  foreign  string 459 


544    INDEX  TO  FIEST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS 

TAGS 

HEAVY  hangs  the  rain-drop 459 

Hope  was  but  a  timid  friend 393 

How  beautiful  the  earth  is  still 389 

How  brightly  glistening  in  the  sun 412 

How  clear  she  shines  !     How  quietly 397 

How  few,  of  all  the  hearts  that  loved ....  .  456 


I  DO  not  weep;  I  would  not  weep 462 

If  thou  be  in  a  lonely  place 359 

I  have  gone  backward  in  the  work 467 

I  have  slept  upon  my  couch .  434 

I've  quench'd  my  lamp,  I  struck  it  in  that  start      ....  305 

I've  seen  this  dell  in  July's  shine 385 

I  hoped  that  with  the  brave  and  strong 480 

I  knew  not  'twas  so  dire  a  crime 458 

I'll  not  weep  that  thou  art  going  to  leave  me 407 

I'll  rest  me  in  this  sheltered  bower 411 

I  mourn  with  thee,  and  yet  rejoice 414 

In  all  we  do,  and  hear,  and  see 413 

In  summer's  mellow  midnight         .......  452 

In  the  dungeon-crypts  idly  did  I  stray 390 

In  the  earth — the  earth — thou  shall  be  laid 457 


LIFE,  believe,  is  not  a  dream 345 

'  Listen  !     When  your  hair,  like  mine  ' 454 

Long  ago  I  wished  to  leave 348 

Loud  without  the  wind  was  roaring 448 

Love  is  like  the  wild  rose-briar .  454 


Music  I  love — but  never  strain 415 

My  food  is  but  spare 538 

My  God  (oh,  let  me  call  Thee  mine) 468 

My  soul  is  awakened,  my  spirit  is  soaring 427 

My  youthful  brother,  oft  I  long 531 


No  coward  soul  is  mine 464 

Not  in  scorn  do  I  reprove  thee 356 


INDEX  TO   FIEST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS    545 

PAGE 

'  0  DAT  !  he  cannot  die 386 

O  God !  if  this  indeed  be  all 417 

Oh,  I  am  very  weary 433 

Oh,  thy  bright  eyes  must  answer  now 399 

Oh,  weep  not,  love  !  each  tear  that  springs 416 

Oh,  would  I  were  the  golden  light 361 

Often  rebuked,  yet  always  back  returning        .         .        .        .        .  463 

On  a  sunny  brae  alone  I  lay 394 

One  sunny  morn  of  May 493 

Oppressed  with  sin  and  woe 470 


PLOUGH,  vessel,  plough  the  British  main 369 

Poor  restless  dove,  I  pity  thee 435 


RICHES  I  hold  in  light  esteem 409 

Rude  winter's  come,  the  sky's  o'eicast 506 


SHALL  earth  no  more  inspire  thee 451 

She  will  not  sleep,  for  fear  of  dreams 324 

Should  poverty,  modest  and  clean 516 

Silent  is  the  house  :  all  are  laid  asleep 462 

'  Sister,  you've  sat  there  all  the  day  ' 349 

Sit  still-  a  word  — a  breath  may  break 317 

Some  have  won  a  wild  delight         . 354 

Spirit  of  Eartli  !  thy  hand  is  chill 473 

Sweet  are  thy  strains,  Celestial  Bard 420 


THE  bluebell  is  the  sweetest  flower 447 

'  The  evening  passes  fast  away ' 401 

The  human  heart  has  hidden  treasures 358 

The  joyous  day  illumes  the  sky 514 

The  linnet  in  the  rocky  dells 3*8 

The  moon  is  full  this  winter  night 404 

There  should  be  no  despair  for  you     .......  39!) 

There's  no  use  in  weeping       ........  364 

The  room  is  quiet,  thoughts  alone       .         .         .         .         .         .  351 

The  shower  is  past,  and  tho  sky      .......  501 

The  sun  shines  bright,  the  morning's  fair 529 


PAGE 

'  The  winter  wind  is  loud  and  wild '    .        . 378 

This  last  denial  of  my  faith 365 

Though  bleak  these  woods  and  damp  the  ground       .        .        .    .  426 

'Tis  not  the  air  I  wished  to  play 353 

'Tis  strange  to  think  there  was  a  time 425 

'Twas  New  Year's  night ;  the  joyous  throng 375 


WELL  hast  thou  spoken,  and  yet  not  taught 407 

Well,  some  may  hate,  and  some  may  scorn 404 

We  take  from  life  one  little  share 368 

What  is  she  writing  ?     Watch  her  now 345 

What  though  the  Sun  had  left  my  sky 438 

When,  Reverend  Sir,  your  good  design, 522 

When  sinks  my  heart  in  hopeless  gloom 428 

When  the  dead  in  their  cold  graves  are  lying 374 

When  thou  sleepest,  lulled  in  night 362 

When  warm'd  with  zeal,  my  rustic  Muse 487 

When  weary  with  the  long  day's  care      ......  396 

Why  should  such  gloomy  silence  reign  ? 472 


TBS,  thou  art  gone  !  and  never  more 410 

You  may  rejoice  to  think  yourselves  secure 423 


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